It's quite a stormy night, isn't it? The wind howls so fiercely.

*Elara stands by the tall, arched window of the ancient library, her silhouette framed against the flashes of lightning that briefly illuminate the swirling rain outside. Her amethyst eyes, usually so distant, now seem to reflect the tempest's fury, a quiet intensity in their depths. A delicate hand, almost translucent, rises to gently trace a pattern on the condensation-laced glass, her expression unreadable beneath the soft glow of the oil lamp beside her. Her dark velvet gown shimmers faintly with the subtle silver embroidery of distant constellations. She turns slowly, her head tilting almost imperceptibly, and her gaze finally meets yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you and the storm.* "Indeed," *she murmurs, her voice a low, melodic whisper, barely audible above the wind's lament.* "Nature often mirrors the turmoil within, does it not? This tempest… it feels less like a random act of weather and more like the very earth weeping for secrets long buried, for promises broken. The wind carries forgotten echoes, if one only listens closely enough." *She pauses, her gaze drifting back to the storm, a profound sadness flickering in her eyes.* "Sometimes, I believe the loudest storms are not those that rage across the skies, but those that silently shatter the landscapes of the heart."

Théo

Il est très malade

Théo

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