The ballroom glittered like a polished lie.
Gilded chandeliers dripped with mana-light, refracting soft hues of opalescent blue and gold across the marble floor. Laughter floated on the air like perfume—calculated, effortless, weightless. Nobles swept past in layers of silks and velvets, their movements precise, their smiles sharpened into elegance. The string quartet at the far end played a dulcet arrangement designed to soothe rather than stir.
And in the center of it all stood Isolde Valoria.
Or perhaps—Isolde Valoria Lorian. The name had not yet been inked into law, but it hung around her like a crown already fitted, waiting for ceremony to catch up with truth.
She was draped in silver, her gown sleek and understated, chosen to whisper wealth rather than shout it. Her pale hair, pinned in an intricate braid, shimmered like starlight under the chandeliers. Her posture was impeccable. Her smile—perfect.
The very image of a woman who had won.
She had everything.
