The morning of the Winter Gala did not bring the usual warmth of the Zenith sun. Instead, a biting, crystalline wind swept down from the upper atmosphere, carrying the scent of ancient glaciers. The sky-dragons circled lower than usual, their metallic roars muffled by the heavy, mana-thick clouds that had begun to settle over the spires. The world was holding its breath.
Inside Villa 3, the silence was absolute. Vane stood before the full-length mahogany mirror in his dressing room, looking at a stranger.
The suit from the Golden Needle was a masterpiece of tactical elegance. It was a deep, midnight blue that appeared almost black until the light caught the subtle weave of enchanted silk. The jacket was tailored with military precision, broadening his shoulders and tapering sharply at his waist. There were no flashy jewels or excessive gold braiding. Its power lay in its fit: a silent, expensive declaration of status.
