𝒜 𝒟𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝓋𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓈

The great hall of the Antarctic Palace was a sea of silk and secrets. Crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling painted with the empire’s constellations, their light catching on jeweled masks and the gilded edges of uniforms. The air hummed with music—soft strings and steady drums—and the low murmur of hundreds of voices, all pretending they belonged.

Philza

leans forward, dark cloak shifting like settled wings Quite the turnout.

Kristin

her voice is soft, almost lost in the music below They all look the same from up here. A flock of bright, chattering starlings.

Her gaze, however, was not on the flock. It had settled, some minutes ago, on a single quiet figure near the pillar. The girl with the white mask.

Kristin

Phil.

Philza

follows her line of sight, his sharp eyes finding the girl instantly Hm.

Below, Y/n finally took a small, hesitant sip from her glass. She winced slightly at the taste, then smiled to herself—a private, fleeting thing—before her expression smoothed back into careful observation.

Kristin

You see it too, don’t you?

Philza

chuckles lowly Steady. Like a rock in a river.

Kristin

rests her arms on the cold marble rail I’ve been thinking.

Philza

That’s never good.

Kristin

smiles, feather charms glinting We have three sons.

Philza

We do.

Kristin

One is feral. One is a dramatist. And the eldest has banned hugs.

Philza

Techno has his reasons.

Kristin

her eyes don’t leave the girl below Maybe it’s time for a daughter.