The air in the master suite of the Dravik manor was so thick with the scent of aerosol, expensive silk, and nervous energy that it was almost hard to breathe. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the skyline, painting long, bloody streaks of crimson across the city, but inside, the lights were clinical and unforgiving.
Amara sat in front of a vanity mirror that looked like it belonged in a museum. She felt less like a woman and more like a canvas. For three hours, a team of stylists had worked on her with the silent, terrifying precision of surgeons.
Her hair, usually a chaotic tumble, had been sculpted into a sleek wave that grazed her collarbones. Her skin had been buffed and painted until she looked like she was made of fine, unyielding porcelain.
Behind her, Feralia moved like a shadow. She wasn't dressed as a matriarch tonight, she was in a sharp, understated black dress that allowed her to blend into the background, acting as the ultimate "handmaiden" to the transition.
