The hall plunged into chaos.
Servants dropped their trays, glasses shattered against marble floors, and nobles—draped in silk and jewels—scrambled like frightened pigeons. The pristine mask of aristocratic grace evaporated in seconds.
Amelia didn't flinch.
She stood perfectly still, her glass still in hand, her gaze fixed on the man who had stolen every eye in the room.
The Phantom Thief.
His dramatic entrance was everything the stories claimed—loud, flamboyant, impossible to ignore. He perched atop the auctioneer's stage with his cloak swirling, bowing low as though mocking the nobility who'd paid fortunes just to breathe the same air as one another.
Alice, meanwhile, had stiffened beside her, not from fear.
"…Why he's here?," Alice whispered, while at the same her hands reaching for her sword.
Amelia's heart tightened at the sound.
Alice's wide, shining eyes weren't on her. They were fixed on him.
That thief, that self-proclaimed phantom.
