The hall seemed to darken when Adalbert spoke, though the morning light still slanted through the windows. Perhaps it was only in Rice Shower's eyes—the way she leaned forward, the way her small frame seemed to fold against him as if she feared the weight of his story would slip away if she blinked.
Adalbert, for once, did not fill the silence with laughter. No boisterous chuckle, no grand sweep of his coat. Only his hand resting gently against her shoulder, thumb brushing absentminded circles as if conducting an invisible orchestra.
"…It begins," he repeated softly, his voice drifting into memory, "with a boy too foolish to seek crowns, too stubborn to care for trophies. While the others sharpened their eyes toward glory on the track, he—" his lips twitched into a wry smile "—he fell in love with stories."
The curtain rose in his mind.
A theater, golden light spilling down upon a stage. He was younger then—barely older than Rice was now—sitting stiffly in the velvet seat of an old opera house. The air smelled of dust and perfume, heavy with expectation. And then the play began.
Two voices, trembling at first, then soaring: a boy and a girl standing upon a balcony, defying the world for love. Romeo and Juliet.
Adalbert remembered the way his chest had tightened, the way each word seemed to claw its way into his lungs and leave him breathless. He remembered gripping the seat until his knuckles whitened.
Not because of the tragedy.
No—it was the wonder. The sheer magic that a voice, a gesture, a stage drenched in light could create. It was like alchemy: turning words into gold, hearts into thunder.
That night, he decided. He would not chase after horses and crowns. He would chase after this.
The boy trained, but not as the academy wanted. While the others studied breeding lines, drills, strategies of racing, he practiced steps upon wooden floors until his feet bled. He learned to spin, to bow, to leap. He memorized monologues beneath candlelight, whispering words of kings and lovers into the dark until his throat was raw.
Laughter followed him, of course. His classmates mocked him for wasting time, for chasing ghosts instead of victories. But he never faltered. For in his chest burned the memory of Juliet's eyes beneath the spotlight, of Romeo's cry as he defied the world.
And eventually, the dream took shape. He was accepted into a troupe. A real troupe. For the first time, he stood upon a stage not as an audience, but as a player.
And oh, the thrill of it.
The applause washing over him, the lights bathing his skin, the hush of the crowd when he spoke—it was intoxicating. He laughed, he wept, he danced, he dueled, he died. He became kings, beggars, fools, heroes. He lived a thousand lives in the span of a season.
For a time, it was enough.
But then… it wasn't.
Because though he performed perfectly, though he played each part with precision, the wonder remained fractured. He was a piece of the show, yes—but only a piece. He longed for more. To be not just a brushstroke, but the painting itself. To be not just Adalbert the actor, but the story entire.
And in that longing, frustration festered.
Then she came.
He could still see it as if the stage had never dimmed.
The troupe had been casting for a new production, a sweeping tale of gods and mortals. The hall had buzzed with expectation. And into that hall had walked a girl—slim, poised, her hair like flowing silk, her smile the kind that needed no spotlight to shine.
"Opera," she had said, though she was only TM Opera O to the world. But to him, she was simply Opera.
The sun.
She spoke her first line and the world stilled. No hesitation, no falter. The words left her lips as if she had been born with them carved into her soul. Every tilt of her head, every flick of her hand, every rise and fall of her tone—she commanded the stage. She was not playing the role. She was the role.
And Adalbert—Adalbert was helpless.
Where he had clawed for scraps of wonder, she breathed it as naturally as air.
Together… together they were unstoppable.
He remembered the seasons that followed like a cascade of stars.
Opera and Adalbert. Adalbert and Opera. Always side by side, their names announced together, their presence demanded together.
He danced and spun, and she filled the air with fire. He bowed and gestured, and she lit the stage ablaze with her brilliance.
Audiences laughed, cried, gasped, applauded until their hands stung.
And for the first time, Adalbert felt it. Truly felt it.
That perfect, elusive wonder.
Not crowns, not trophies, not victories on the track. But joy. The kind that spread like wildfire, that leapt from heart to heart until even the coldest soul burned with it.
Opera had given him that.
She was the sun, and he, the moon, could only shine by her light. But together, they spread dawn itself.
And for a fleeting moment, he believed it would last forever.
The memory cracked.
Back in the present, Rice felt his arm tighten faintly around her. His voice had softened, become brittle at the edges.
"And then," he whispered, "the sunset came. The moon was not ready for it. And with it… the coldness of night."
Rice blinked up at him. "Onii-sama…?"
But Adalbert's gaze was far away, lost somewhere in the shadows only he could see.