Her skin is painted with a thick white coat, ornate with wavy stripes like tendrils that encroach her shoulders, latching onto her skin from the back like red flames. She wears a large, circular hat with a short, triangular head. At the round ends, a translucent veil falls to her wrists, blending well with her crimson gown, like a scorched sunrise, gushing down her shoulders.
The air stills, the world bating breath. Only once she ascends the throne and sits upon it does everything resume again. The host initiates the festivity with a welcome monologue, and expansively motions to all the purebloods. The silence is broken by a chorus of scornful whispers. Solaris and I exchange a look. And I glance at the other side of the table, the bejewelled group casting icy glares in our general direction.
The host quickly restores order, summoning silence. A servant brings him a single chalice on a tray and stands beside him, and another comes holding a jug of wine to her chest.
