"Astrid, in truth, I'm not as good as you imagine me to be."
Under the clear, bright moonlight, the cherry-pink haired girl in a white dress sat on the bench. Flickering shadows of leaves danced across Lyra's snow-white legs sheathed in pristine white thigh-highs, forming slender gaps of white and gray. Her smooth, delicate silk-stockinged feet rested quietly inside tiny black leather shoes, making the glossy black tips even more prominent.
Lyra gazed at Astrid, her hands pressed against the bench, her voice soft as a mosquito's hum yet distinctly audible beneath the night sky.
"Perhaps it's just my illusion, or maybe mere wild speculation..."
"In Astrid's heart, Lyra Beckett has always been an exceptionally, exceptionally noble person?"
This feeling hadn't formed overnight; it had naturally emerged from Lyra's prolonged interactions with Astrid.
