Night draped down like silk, and on the floating isle the world opened to strange, bright wonders.

You lift a hand toward the sky, and cool starlight beads on your fingertips like dew, as if you could actually catch the stars.

It feels close to illusion, like brushing the edge of the untouchable; down on a roof, such a moment would never breathe.

Dream and watcher trade gazes here: you look up at the constellations, and they look back like a thousand quiet eyes; only at this absolute height does that fantasy bloom.

Trust the elves to live where beauty gathers like mist over water; this home hums with gentle wonder.

Beside us, flowers of unknown name glow like tiny lanterns, their specks of light offering the night sky like a page to read.

The scent touches the nose like a warm breeze in pine, not some rare perfume for nobles; even a passing woodcutter would pause, bend, and savor.

Children’s calls ring by the ear like wind chimes, most of them bright girl voices skipping across the grass.

Sight, scent, and sound come together like three strings in tune, the delights people crave playing at once—but the red‑haired girl on the lawn doesn’t want all three. The first two are enough. The last one—she’d throw it to the wind, because—

“Drink more!”

“Oh? Drink it! You think Lady Elfe ever backs down?”

A blonde girl eggs the crowd on like a spark in dry brush, and another girl—Elfe—plants one foot on the table, cup raised, gripping a brew known as the famed bust‑boosting Waterdew Tea.

Elfe tips her head, and the cup pours a heavy stream straight into her mouth; none of the demure grace of a maiden, all rough swagger like a tavern brawler.

She can’t take the flood in one go; a silver thread spills from the corner of her lips, slides down her cheek to her chin, then drops to her collar. The pure blue cloth darkens, a blotch like a flower pinned to her chest—only this bloom opens a little ugly.

“Fooo—haaa—”

A beat passes; spill or not, that cup of Waterdew Tea is gone.

“Ohhhh!”

Ling squeals on cue, fangirl energy flashing like confetti in lantern light.

Elves crowd around the two little terrors, their faces breaking into grins; the girls’ light laughter meets the men’s deep, rolling voices like drum and bell, noise colliding into warm, thick revelry.

“Oh yeah! My turn, folks!”

A bold boast rises like a battle cry, and up steps a tiny loli—Ling.

She snatches Elfe’s cup, arm throwing long like a hero’s line, and holds it out stiff to a maid‑dressed elf.

Her free hand props at her waist; eyes closed, nose upturned, she strikes a pose like a hard‑blooded veteran in a pulp tale—at least, that’s how Ling imagines it.

The maid smiles and pours a fierce liquor—Waterdew Tea with a proud 0% kick—and adds, sweet as silk:

“Warrior, this brew is fierce. Don’t gulp. You might choke.”

Ling shakes her head like a cat flicking rain from its whiskers, pure disdain.

“Back in the day, I downed a cup of flammable oolong at dinner. Only three days in the hospital. You think I fear this little drink now?”

She tilts her head and drains it in one shot, lips finding the exact rim Elfe used, not a drop wasted, a clean line like a sword stroke.

“Ha—so good!”

Her cheeks flush like peach skin in sun; she sways a step, then steadies, playing it as if the ‘strong’ brew punched her, but her tough body rode the wave.

It’s obviously a show, but the big guys in the crowd clap anyway; the calls of “Nice!” and “Badass!” ring like sparks flying from steel.

Elfe won’t be outdone. She grabs a fresh cup, hauls still‑on‑stage Ling by the arm, and declares a contest.

The audience then witnesses the legendary Goat‑Jump Drinking Method, the Airborne Five‑and‑a‑Half Spins Drinking Method, the Land‑Roll Vanish‑the‑Wine Method—plenty more too, names as wild as midsummer thunder, though no one keeps count when madness takes the stage.

Different from the tea‑tipsy duo, Alicia lies on the grass like a moonlit shadow, eyes on the sky, a cup resting at her side. No tea now—just a few beads clinging to the bottom like clear pearls, proof of what it held.

Whoosh—

The cup fills again, steam rising like cloud from a hot spring; on a cold highland night, a warm brew slips into the bones like fireflies.

Amelia finishes the pour, sets down the kettle, and sits beside Alicia, quiet as a fern in dew.

“What’s wrong?”

Alicia’s widened pupils draw back like tides, her mind returning from far, cold constellations.

“Nothing big. You, though—why not go play?”

Amelia takes her own cup, already poured, and sips, the warmth rolling like a small sun in her chest.

“Just tired. And if I join those youngsters, they’ll tense up.”

Her words make Alicia laugh, soft as rain on bamboo.

“You look so young. Why call yourself old? I’m not even twenty‑five. Don’t tell me you’re calling me old too.”

“Who knows? Maybe I’m a granny for real.”

Alicia lets the topic drift like a leaf past the gate; no need to tug at sensitive threads.

“I answered you. Now why not chase the youngsters’ noise, Miss under‑twenty‑five?”

Alicia closes her eyes like slipping into a dream, but her lips move, sending a small wave into the night.

“The bustle’s theirs. I have nothing.”

Amelia watches her, a little surprised, like catching moonlight in the palm.

“Getting artsy on me now?”

Alicia keeps her eyes shut, silence stretching like silk. After a while—

“Who knows?”