This morning, I was finally introduced properly to Miss DeLuna’s parents.
Before discussing them, however, I must first record something equally important.
Miss DeLuna’s room is a catastrophe.
Not metaphorically.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
An actual disaster zone.
When I first entered yesterday evening, my immediate instinct was to throw everything away and begin reconstruction from the foundation upward.
Books covered the floor.
Scrolls buried the desk.
Clothing existed in unstable geographical formations across the room.
At one point I discovered what appeared to be an original historical manuscript partially hidden beneath snacks.
Another book worth more than fifty gold in the Capital was functioning as support for uneven furniture.
Not a copy.
An original.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna herself remained lying peacefully on the bed reading while I experienced progressive spiritual collapse attempting to organize her surroundings.
I eventually stopped cleaning sometime past midnight.
She thanked me sincerely afterward.
Then immediately placed three more books on the floor.
At this stage, I finally understand why she requires an infinity bag.
Organization clearly surrendered long ago.
Strangely enough, the house itself is completely ordinary.
That realization disturbed me far more than if it had been extravagant.
No giant palace.
No noble estate.
No heavily guarded ancestral fortress.
Simply a quiet two-story stone house overlooking part of the lower terraces of the city.
Warm lights.
Old stone walls.
Books everywhere.
Too many books.
The living room alone contains enough written material to financially destabilize several private collectors.
And according to Miss DeLuna, this is merely her family’s “personal collection.”
Personal.
I no longer know what words mean here.
The study room occupies nearly half the house.
Archives line entire walls from floor to ceiling.
Some texts appear older than nations.
Others are written in languages I cannot identify at all.
And yet the atmosphere remains strangely domestic.
At one point I watched Lady DeLuna’s father drinking ordinary coffee while reviewing documents.
Coffee.
Not divine elixirs.
Not glowing ancient liquids.
Coffee.
Somehow this became the most emotionally stabilizing event I experienced all day.
The house also contains numerous objects that would qualify as priceless artifacts anywhere else on the continent.
Here, they function as household utilities.
There are lights without flame embedded directly into the walls.
Water becomes hot instantly through mechanisms I still cannot understand.
The kitchen stove produces heat without firewood or coal.
Most horrifying of all—
They possess communication stones.
Actual communication stones.
Casually.
Mounted inside the house like completely ordinary domestic tools.
When I reacted appropriately to this revelation, Miss DeLuna simply blinked and explained that nearly every household on the island possesses one.
Apparently they make arranging meetings “more convenient.”
At this point, I suspect Isla de la Luna may have accidentally solved civilization already.
As for Miss DeLuna’s parents—
I now understand several deeply concerning things about her immediately.
Her father appears calm.
Young, somehow.
Far younger than he logically should.
Perhaps in his thirties by appearance alone.
Which feels impossible considering his position.
He wore a soft silver robe similar to those I have seen throughout the city.
Simple.
Elegant.
Nothing overtly aristocratic.
And yet despite appearing perfectly approachable, the atmosphere around him felt strangely difficult to cross.
Like standing near someone intellectually vast enough that instinct itself becomes cautious.
Lady DeLuna’s mother appears similarly composed.
Quiet.
Focused almost entirely upon her writing.
She acknowledged me politely.
Then returned to documenting something before I fully finished sitting down.
There is no hostility within this household.
No arrogance.
No visible superiority.
Which somehow makes everything significantly more intimidating.
Conversation with Lord DeLuna feels unlike speaking with any person I have ever met before.
He speaks gently.
Calmly.
But every sentence forms itself with terrifying precision.
Not rehearsed precision.
Constructed precision.
Like listening to someone build an argument and a folklore story simultaneously while deciding which truths should remain visible.
At one point during breakfast, after observing me quietly for several minutes, he casually admitted something that nearly killed me instantly.
“I confess,” he said thoughtfully, “I did not expect Artemisia to return home with a friend.”
Friend.
The way he said it made me feel as though I had accidentally become a historical event.
Meanwhile Miss DeLuna nearly choked on her tea.
Which, admittedly, helped restore my emotional balance somewhat.
The strangest realization of all came slowly afterward.
Until arriving here, Miss DeLuna often felt impossibly strange compared to everyone around her.
Too observant.
Too knowledgeable.
Too emotionally unusual.
But inside this house—
She feels human.
Almost painfully so.
Messy.
Impulsive.
Emotional.
Distractible.
For the first time since meeting her, I began understanding what High Admiral Kael truly meant.
Miss DeLuna genuinely is the anomaly within this family.
And somehow that realization frightens me more than if she had not been.
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