"Do you think we're ready for this?"
The aged man asked, his silver hair swept back with aristocratic precision.
His attire gleamed, silk embroidered with threads of diamond, each movement scattering light like stars.
For anyone from the outskirts, the sight alone was enough to steal the breath from their lungs.
It certainly did from hers.
People called her Skunk—a cruel nickname for a child with uneven strands of black and white hair.
No name, no family. Just a blemish in an orphanage that smelled of old bread and candle wax.
"Of course, darling," said the woman beside him. Her voice was soft, perfumed with grace.
"We've discussed this again and again. After her death…" she paused, sorrow briefly touching her golden eyes, "it's too quiet. I miss the laughter."
The girl stared at her, the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.
Her hair flowed like molten gold, her dress a cascade of red silk and diamond petals that shimmered like roses under sunlight.
