"Well? Are you just going to keep staring at me?"
Florian froze, the words striking him like an arrow straight through his chest.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The woman before him stood taller than most in the ballroom, her very presence bending the atmosphere around her. Nobles instinctively shifted aside as if some unseen force demanded space for her.
Her hair—white as fresh snow—spilled past her shoulders, shimmering beneath the chandeliers like strands of silver.
It framed a face both sharp and elegant, carrying the dignity of someone who had long since learned how to wield respect without asking for it.
And her clothes—no glittering gown, no courtly embellishment. She wore a warrior's garb, fitted to her frame with precision, practical and unyielding, yet still refined.
Each seam, each polished clasp hinted at someone accustomed not to pageantry, but to command. To battles both on the field and within halls such as this.
