Pavela's palm pressed against that twisted door.
She applied pressure.
Pushing forward.
The mont the door was ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) pushed open, there was no sound of heavy friction, nor any howling wind.
There was nothing.
Only a powerful sense of weightlessness, as if her stomach were being squeezed out of her throat.
She felt as though she hadn't walked into the tower.
But rather, she had "fallen" in.
It was as if she had crossed vast stretches of ti and space, passing through a long, endless, freezing conduit.
When the dizziness finally vanished and her feet touched solid ground again, Pavela snapped her eyes open.
Then, she froze.
Before her eyes, there were no crumbling stones, no deafening thunder, and no silent, screaming faces of agony.
She was standing in a room.
A room that was absurdly large, breathtakingly luxurious, and clearly belonged to soone of high nobility.
The ceiling was high.
At least five ters.
Exquisite frescoes were painted on the dod ceiling, depicting mythological scenes she couldn't quite grasp: winged angels, burning cities, and new sprouts rising from ruins.
The edges of the frescoes were inlaid with intricate gold patterns, shimring under an unseen light source.
The walls were pale blue.
The color of a winter morning sky.
Several massive oil paintings hung on the walls, their fras made of dark walnut and carved with delicate vine patterns.
The floor was dark oak parquet.
Every plank was polished to a mirror-like shine.
A massive carpet lay upon it, with a deep red base and golden borders, an unfamiliar crest embroidered in its center.
On one side of the room stood a massive four-poster bed.
The bedposts were white marble, carved into the shape of intertwining vines.
The bed curtains were translucent white gauze, hanging softly and swaying gently in a light breeze.
On the other side was a row of floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside the windows was a void of pure white.
There was nothing.
Only whiteness.
This was a bedroom.
A palace bedroom that perfectly replicated so ancient royal style.
Pavela slowly turned her head.
Directly in front of her stood a massive full-length mirror, inlaid with dark gold vine patterns.
She looked into the mirror.
The person in the mirror looked back at her.
It was herself.
But it was definitely not her current self.
The her in the mirror had grown up.
She appeared to be a young woman of about nineteen, around the sa age as Eleanor.
Her once thin shoulders had broadened, presenting an extrely elegant and upright silhouette.
Her silver hair, which was usually a bit ssy and short, now reached her waist like flowing moonlight.
That long silver hair was partially pinned up loosely with several dark gold hairpins, while the rest cascaded like a waterfall over a snowy-white fox fur collar, the strands shimring with a faint silver light as if dusted with frost.
What she found even more wondrous was this face.
The slight youthful greenness had faded, and her features had fully matured.
Yet ti had not robbed her of that deceptive "innocence"; if anything, it had intensified.
The line of her jaw remained soft, and beneath her small, straight nose, her lip color was still pale.
Those large, pale grey-blue eyes still resembled a frozen lake on a winter morning, and the slight upward tilt at the corners of her eyes still carried that natural, innocent sense of purity.
If she didn't speak or make any expression,
the her in the mirror looked exactly like a pure princess who had been carefully raised in a greenhouse since childhood, afraid to even speak loudly.
And on her body was a complex and magnificent court dress, yet it was so heavy it felt like an instrunt of torture.
The primary colors were pure snowy white and deep dark gold.
The heavy silk clung tightly to her matured body, perfectly outlining her slender yet well-proportioned waist and hips.
The edge of the high collar was inlaid with a ring of soft, snowy-white polar fox fur, making her skin appear even paler than the snow.
The skirt cascaded down in layers, like an inverted, blooming white rose.
The corset was tightened extrely well.
So tight that Pavela felt her ribs aching slightly, and she had to carefully control the depth of her breaths.
She lowered her head and raised her hands.
Her hands were encased in a pair of pure white silk gloves.
The gloves extended above her elbows, fitting the lines of her arms snugly.
On the back of the hands, an intricate emblem was embroidered with extrely fine dark gold silk thread.
A double-headed eagle with spreading wings, treading upon a broken sword.
Pavela moved her fingers.
The tall, magnificent woman in the mirror with the deceptively innocent face also moved her fingers.
The friction of the silk made an extrely faint rustling sound.
This outfit was a bit heavy.
Or rather, quite heavy.
It weighed at least a dozen pounds.
It severely hindered her weapon-draw speed, not to ntion performing tactical rolls.
Yet strangely, she didn't feel any sense of dissonance wearing these clothes.
In fact, she felt an extrely strong, almost instinctive familiarity with this older version of herself and this room.
It was as if...
she had stood before the mirror like this countless tis, wearing these clothes, with this face, while a group of faceless maids adjusted her hemline.
"What on earth is this place..."
She murmured to herself.
"Yeah, I'd really like to know what on earth this place is too."
A muffled voice ca from behind her.
Pavela turned around.
And then.
"Pfft—"
She couldn't help it.
She burst out laughing.
The Gatekeeper was standing behind her.
No, rather, it was floating behind her.
But at this mont, its form had undergone a subtle change.
That entity of the void, constantly collapsing and restructuring, was now forcefully stuffed into a valet's uniform.
A black tailcoat.
A white shirt.
A black bowtie.
And a pair of polished black leather shoes.
But the problem was, the Gatekeeper had no fixed form.
Its body was a mass of void flas that constantly burned, collapsed, and restructured.
So, with that valet's uniform on, it looked as if soone had draped clothes over a burning bonfire.
The hem of the tailcoat was constantly being scorched, only to grow back again.
The shirt's collar kept collapsing, revealing the burning void within.
The bowtie hung askew at the "neck," threatening to fall off at any mont.
And those leather shoes were currently hovering about ten centiters above the floor, since the Gatekeeper had no feet at all.
"Hahahaha—"
Pavela clutched her stomach, doubling over with laughter.
"Look at you—"
"Hahahahaha—"
"What... what is this look?"
The edges of the Gatekeeper's flas flickered violently.
As if expressing so sort of dissatisfaction.
"...Are you done laughing?"
Its voice was muffled.
"It's not like I chose this."
"It just automatically beca like this once I entered this door."
"I didn't want to wear this either."
"But—hahaha—"
Pavela was laughing so hard she was almost in tears.
"But your bowtie—hahaha—"
"It's about to fall off—hahahaha—"
The Gatekeeper glanced down at its bowtie.
That black bowtie had indeed tilted to an impossible angle, hanging onto the neck by only a final scrap of fabric.
It reached out with a hand made of void fire, attempting to straighten the bowtie.
But as soon as its hand touched the bowtie, the tie went "poof" and burst into flas.
Then it turned to ash.
Then it grew back again.
Still crooked.
"Dammit!"
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