Regulus thoughtfully scratched his chin, his long fingers gliding over smooth skin, while his sharp, piercing gaze swept over the three girls standing before him.

His pristine white suit, impeccable as if carved from marble, rustled faintly with each movement, betraying the craftsmanship of its creator.

"So," he began, his voice deep with a slight rasp, as though he'd just finished a long speech, "I've learned your names. That's a decent start, don't you think?"

He paused, as if expecting one of them to nod in agreement, but when none did, he continued:

"Now, let's get to the point. What can each of you do? Anything at all, even the smallest thing."

The Archbishop casually shifted his hand to his hip, slightly pushing back the edge of his jacket, and added with a faint smirk:

"I need to know exactly what skills Marilyn should instill in you. She's a master of all trades, believe me."

Ayr nervously rubbed the frayed edge of her tattered cloak. Her fingers fidgeted with the rough fabric, betraying her inner turmoil. She lifted her gaze, timid yet curious, and said softly:

"Well… I can sew a little." Her voice trembled, as if she feared her words might dissolve into the air before reaching him.

Regulus immediately broke into a wide grin, clapping his hands so loudly that the sound echoed off the room's walls. His bright, lively eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm.

"Sewing? That's simply wonderful!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes slightly, as if already envisioning Ayr's future.

"Marilyn will be thrilled. She's a veritable sorceress with a needle and thread, you know. If she takes you under her wing, I swear, you'll become a tailor that even royal seamstresses would envy!"

He made a theatrical gesture, pointing to his snow-white suit, and added with pride:

"This, by the way, is her work. Perfect, isn't it?"

Ayr blinked, trying to process his words, then hesitantly asked:

"She'll teach me?"

"Of course!" Regulus nodded so vigorously that his white hair became slightly disheveled. "She's not just skilled—she's a genius. Trust me, girl, with her help, you'll work miracles."

While Regulus spoke animatedly with Ayr, Luna, standing a little apart, narrowed her blue eyes—deep like twin lakes reflecting her doubts.

She watched his every move, every word, with keen attention.

"He's probing our abilities. But why?"* she thought, twisting the edge of her blue cloak. Her mind whirled like a storm.

She recalled the coffee shop where they'd first met—how no one could so much as touch his clothing, not a scratch, not a stain.

"A being this powerful doesn't need mere maids. There's something more here,"* her intuition whispered.

Her gaze sharpened as Regulus suddenly stepped forward. He ran a hand through his hair, then gently, almost tenderly, touched Ayr's cheek.

The girl froze, unsure how to react. Then he turned to Fal and repeated the gesture—a light, barely perceptible touch.

Finally, he approached Luna. His fingers, cool and steady, brushed her cheek, leaving an odd sensation, like a faint breeze across her skin. Then he stepped back, crossing his arms and surveying them with a slight smile.

"Why did he do that? It's not random!"* Luna tensed, her thoughts spinning anew. She searched for an explanation: a test of their reactions? A search for something hidden? Or perhaps some ritual? Her intuition screamed that this simple gesture concealed more than an eccentric quirk.

"Well then," Regulus clapped his hands, interrupting her musings like a thunderclap scattering clouds. "Sewing's a start. What about you two?" He shifted his gaze to Fal and Luna, his brows rising slightly in expectation.

Fal, still rubbing her cheek where his touch lingered, straightened and declared with a hint of pride:

"I can fight! I even took down a one-horned rabbit! Sure, it was small, but still…"

Regulus chuckled softly, scratching his chin. His laugh was gentle, but it carried a faint edge of mockery.

"A one-horned rabbit?" he echoed, tilting his head. "What, a little bunny with a tiny horn?" He smirked, crossing his arms. "Listen, maybe you should apply your skills to something more serious than rabbit hunting?"

Luna stole a glance at his fingers—the same ones that had touched them all. Her memory flashed to the coffee shop: those same fingers, barely moving, tearing everything around them to shreds without a trace of resistance. Her heart skipped a beat.

Fal, however, wasn't backing down. She jerked her head up, her amber eyes flaring with indignation and resolve.

"No! A one-horned rabbit is a terrifying, dangerous monster!" she blurted, clenching her fists. "It was huge! Well, for a rabbit, way too huge! And it left me with a deep wound, look!" She pointed proudly at a barely visible scar on her arm, displaying it like a trophy.

Regulus squinted, his smile widening, though it now held a predatory edge.

"A deep wound?" he repeated, feigning surprise. "You mean that scratch from tiny teeth?" He chuckled again, waving a hand dismissively. "Maybe we should test your skills on something a bit livelier? I've got a few interesting things at home that might… entertain you."

Fal clenched her fists tighter, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She opened her mouth to retort, but Regulus brushed her off with a casual wave, as if her words were no more than a breeze, and turned to Luna.

"And you, Luna?" His gaze settled on her, piercing and heavy, as if trying to peer into her soul. A shiver ran down her spine, but she fought to stay composed.

"I can count," she began, adjusting her blue hair, "and I know a bit about healing herbs and tea."

Regulus tilted his head slightly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Counting, herbs, and tea?" he repeated, a note of genuine approval in his voice. "You know, that sounds quite useful. I, of course, can't fall ill—physically, at least—but Marilyn or your friends… they might need it."

Luna gripped the edge of her cloak, hiding how her heart raced at his words. *"Can't fall ill? What is he?"* The question flared in her mind like lightning. She took a deep breath to steady herself and said quietly:

"Good… I'll try."

Regulus nodded, pleased with her response, and clapped his hands.

"So, let's sum it up!" he proclaimed, as if hosting some bizarre performance. "Ayr sews, Fal… well, she can wash dishes since the rabbit thing didn't pan out. And Luna counts and works with herbs and tea. I think my dear wife will be delighted with such helpers."

The girls' eyes widened in unison.

"Wife?"* echoed in Luna's mind.

She exchanged a quick glance with her friends, and it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Ayr was the first to speak.

"Wife?" she asked timidly, her voice quivering with curiosity. "She's your wife? Not just a maid?"

Regulus squinted, his smile turning slightly enigmatic.

"No, not just a maid," he replied, his tone softening in a way it hadn't before. "She's my dear wife. We married exactly a month ago." He paused, then added more quietly, almost dreamily: "The very day we met."

The girls froze, processing his words. Fal broke the silence first, her voice trembling with astonishment:

"So you met and married her on the same day? How is that even possible?"

Regulus looked up at the ceiling and laughed softly, as if recalling something amusing.

"What's so hard about that?" he said, shrugging. "I saw her and knew right away: she'd be my wife. No unnecessary fuss."

Luna narrowed her eyes, her lips moving as she whispered so faintly the words barely reached her own ears:

"That's creepy…"

But Regulus heard. His gaze darted to her, and he asked with a hint of mockery:

"Creepy? What's so creepy about it?"

Fal, unable to hold back, blurted out, forgetting who she was addressing:

"You're just crazy! Who marries someone on the first day?!"

Her amber eyes blazed, fists clenched, but she faltered, suddenly remembering who stood before her. Ayr, still stunned, raised her hand like a schoolgirl in class and asked softly:

"Um… did she want to marry so quickly?"

Regulus paused, his gaze growing distant.

"Did she want to…" he drawled, as if savoring the memory. "Let's just say I'm good at persuading."

Fal frowned harder but stayed silent. Luna felt a chill run down her spine. Something in his words sounded ominous, though she couldn't pinpoint why.

A heavy, awkward silence hung in the air until Regulus clapped his hands, slicing through it like a knife through fabric.

"Enough chatter!" he announced cheerfully. "Let's go to my dear wife. She's probably in the kitchen, whipping up something delicious. You won't refuse a treat, will you?"

Fomalhaut lazily slid his gaze over Sheele, who was thoughtfully twirling a glass in her slender fingers. The glass glinted in the bar's dim light, reflecting her purple hair like tongues of flame.

He took another sip of wine, savoring its tart bitterness as it spread across his tongue like dark honey.

Setting the glass on the counter with a faint clink, he spoke, his low, slightly raspy voice cutting through the room's hum:

"Lousy, you say?" he asked, squinting his violet eyes, a spark of curiosity flickering in them. "What kind of tasteless creep was he that you can't even remember?"

Sheele blinked, her gaze darting to him before returning to the glass, as if she were trying to fish a fleeting memory from its burgundy depths. She frowned, pursing her lips, and said uncertainly:

"That's the thing… I don't really remember. He had white hair… or maybe light? Blondish?" She stumbled over the word "blondish" as if it sounded absurd, then shrugged.

Fomalhaut squinted harder, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smirk.

"If Sheele starts digging through her memory, we'll be here till morning,"* he thought, but aloud he only snorted:

"Fine, forget him." His voice dropped to a near whisper, as if speaking to himself. "You'd be remembering until the second coming anyway…"

He tilted his head, studying her face closely. Her violet eyes, deep and slightly anxious, seemed to him like a mirror reflecting something more than she was willing to reveal. A faint smile touched his lips, and he continued, more brightly:

"Interesting…" he began, but his tone quickly shifted to something sharper, almost serious: "What's a Night Raid revolutionary doing in this rundown bar? Got a mission here, or are you just grabbing a drink before your next brawl?"

Sheele flinched, her fingers freezing on the glass, her eyes widening in surprise. She stared at him as if he'd just pulled an ace from his sleeve.

"How do you… know that?" she breathed, her voice trembling with confusion.

Fomalhaut chuckled, leaning back in his chair with casual ease. His long fingers tapped the edge of his glass in a quiet rhythm.

"Wanted posters of your Night Raid pals are plastered on every corner," he said, shrugging. "I'm not blind, you know. And rumors in this city spread faster than the stench of cheap booze from a basement."

Sheele dropped her gaze to the floor, her purple hair falling over her face to hide her embarrassment. She mumbled, barely moving her lips:

"Oh… didn't think of that…"

He laughed softly, his laugh gentle but tinged with mockery, as if amused by her naivety.

"What, you seriously forgot you're wanted?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're strolling around like you own the place. Not afraid someone'll turn you in for a few coins?"

Sheele tensed, her fingers gripping the glass so hard her knuckles whitened. She looked up at him, her eyes full of worry:

"And you… would you turn me in?"

Fomalhaut shook his head, his smile softening, almost indulgent.

"Of course not," he said calmly. "Never even crossed my mind."

She exhaled in relief, wiping tiny beads of sweat from her forehead, and smiled—the first hint of genuine gratitude she'd shown all evening.

"Phew… thank you!"

He squinted, studying her.

"She acts like a petty thief, not a Night Raid member,"* he thought, twirling his glass. *"These guys are supposed to be tough, and she… either doesn't realize her strength or is just absurdly carefree."*

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, then he added with a touch of mockery:

"Besides, how could I turn in such a charming lady?"

Sheele flinched, her hand jerking, and a few drops of wine splashed onto the counter, leaving dark stains on the worn wood.

"Oh, damn!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing pink. "Not again…"

She hurriedly tried to wipe the spill with her sleeve, only smearing it worse, turning the small puddle into a messy smear. Looking up at Fomalhaut, she muttered guiltily:

"Sorry!" Then, turning to the bartender—who stood in the far corner, oblivious—she added quietly: "You too…"

Fomalhaut raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in a restrained smile. *"Too clumsy for a revolutionary,"* he thought, but said nothing, watching her fumble with the minor disaster.

Her movements were frantic, almost comical, and he decided to let her sort it out herself.

"Sorry," she finally said, meeting his gaze. Her voice softened, almost warm, as if apologizing to an old friend. "I'm such a klutz. Always dropping things, breaking stuff… Once I nearly burned down a kitchen trying to make soup." She giggled, then stopped short, as if realizing such confessions might be too much for a stranger.

Fomalhaut scratched his chin, his long fingers sliding over smooth skin, a glint of genuine amusement in his eyes.

"You might just be the clumsiest person I've ever met," he remarked, his voice free of malice, only mild surprise.

Sheele straightened, her expression briefly offended, but she quickly countered with childlike stubbornness:

"But I try to be useful!"

He stifled a laugh, twirling his glass. Taking another sip, he smacked his lips, savoring the taste, and asked with a hint of mockery:

"Useful? And what can you do besides wreak havoc out of nowhere?"

Her face grew serious, and she looked away, as if afraid to say too much. After a pause, she began quietly:

"I…" She hesitated, fidgeting with her sleeve. "I can… clean up. People who hurt others. Get rid of trash. It's the only thing I'm good at."

Fomalhaut smirked, his violet eyes glinting in the dim light.

"So the only thing you're good at is killing?" he clarified, his voice devoid of judgment, only cool curiosity.

Sheele flinched, her hands clenching into fists, and she looked at him. For a moment, her eyes turned empty, cold as a blade stripped of warmth. She nodded slowly, her voice dropping to a near-mechanical whisper:

"Yes. Killing's all I'm good at. But I apologize to everyone I take out."

He leaned back, twirling his glass, and smiled slowly. His smile was calm, but it held a predatory, almost feral edge.

"So you apologize for the trash you clean up," he said, a note of surprise in his tone. "You're really something strange, Sheele."

He squinted, sizing her up. She was clumsy, kind, almost absurdly sincere, yet beneath that mask lay a killer—cold, precise, ruthless. And still, there was no falsehood in her. That intrigued him more than he'd expected.

"And you…" he added, tilting his head slightly, "are an interesting person. Very interesting."