It was Alicia von Crestvale.
Her entrance was like a silent thunderclap—elegant, sharp, and impossible to ignore. She glided through the ballroom like she owned it, and in a way, she did.
Her white hair gleamed under the soft chandelier lights, cascading down her back like liquid moonlight.
Each step was a statement of grace, nobility, and power. Conversations faltered. Cadets—first-years, second-years, and even bold third-years—paused mid-sentence just to gawk.
Alex, seated at the table with Charlotte and a bowl of suspiciously glowing fruit punch, lifted his eyes slowly.
'Here we go again,' he thought.
Alicia didn't bother with greetings. She walked straight up to him, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
"Come with me to the dance floor," she said, her tone casual but her eyes already daring him to say no. "After all, that's what you're getting paid for."
Alex's mouth twitched. 'There it is. The illusion of dignity, shattered once more.'
