The murmurs died one by one as someone stepped out from the staircase above.
Sylene.
He stood there like something unreal—like a fairy prince pulled from an old story.
He was dressed entirely in white, almost bridal in design. Lace framed his collar and traced down his chest, gemstones echoing the pale green of his eyes. His shoulders were bare, contrasted by long lace gloves that hugged his arms. Puffy shorts paired with delicate lace stockings that ended mid-thigh, the swallowtail of the suit trailing behind him and clinging perfectly to his silhouette.
Soft yellow-green adornments and jewels caught the light with every step.
Like a porcelain doll. Fragile. Breathtaking.
No one that night looked better than him.
The room collectively held its breath as he descended the stairs, careful, graceful, until he reached Melchior's side. Their outfits mirrored one another—different cuts, same color—an unspoken declaration.
