The grand doors of the banquet hall swung open with a deep, resonating thud.
The room quieted, all heads turning toward the entrance. Two figures stepped through, and at once the murmurs began—soft, hushed voices threading through the air like wind through leaves.
"Is that…?"
"It's them—"
"Lady Nyverra… and Caelyn."
They walked side by side, their steps measured, calm, regal. The chandeliers above flickered, light catching the silver threads embroidered into their gowns, making them shimmer like woven starlight.
Nyverra, one of the most renowned figures within the current noble heir ranks, carried herself with the cold grace of a queen untouched by time.
Her dress was a deep violet shade bordering on black, flowing like shadows in motion. A veil of silver mist-like silk trailed behind her, enchanted perhaps, never quite touching the floor.
Her hair, black as midnight were bound with amethyst pins, framed her pale face like frost-dusted feathers.
And beside her—Caelyn.
