The noble daughters clustered around your stepsister like moths to a flame, their voices a soft chorus of admiration that seemed to pulse with the music. Celestine stood in a gown of palest silver-blue, her blonde curls catching the light like spun gold, her smile perfectly composed—gracious, warm, every inch the empire's beloved daughter.

Aria wore a simple gown of deep emerald, unadorned by jewels, her dark hair pinned back with a single silver clip. She wasn't trying to draw attention. She wasn't posturing or performing. She was simply—there. Smiling gently at something her mother said, accepting a glass of champagne with a soft word of thanks.

You turned to find a young man leaning against the window frame beside you, a glass of wine in his hand. He had sharp grey eyes and an easy smile, his dark hair swept back from his face. He wore the uniform of a minor house—silver trim on dark blue—and he was watching the crowd with the detached amusement of someone who found the whole affair rather entertaining.