The sunlight off the east terrace caught on silk and gemstone as two figures emerged from the manor's opposite wing, their steps perfectly in sync despite the subtle edge of rivalry in their bearing.
Cressida was draped in dove‑gray charmeuse, her gown cut clean and severe, softened only by the pale shimmer of pearls along her throat. Her dark hair was swept into a twist that spoke of unshakable control, every strand in place, her expression a mask of serene power.
Serathine, by contrast, cut a bolder line: deep emerald satin with a dramatic shoulder sweep, her jewelry sharp with art‑deco brilliance that threw spears of sunlight with every step. Her red hair was styled in sculpted waves that caught the light, and her smile already played at the edges like she knew something the rest of the world didn't.
They reached the top of the terrace together, their gazes briefly locking like blades meeting in a silent duel, before both turned outward toward the drive.
