The corridors leading to the banquet hall were too polished. The kind of pristine that didn't invite presence—it erased it. Every step Priscilla took echoed not with grace, but with warning. Her heels tapped out a rhythm that wasn't hers. Not tonight.
The hem of her gown whispered across the marble like a reluctant breath. Silver thread, muted navy silk. Regal. Restrained. As always. She had dressed as they expected—not to please, but to avoid notice. Blending into the seams of the empire, like she always had.
But fate, as it often did, had other plans.
She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.
She rounded the final bend toward the upper wing—and stopped.
