The clock struck eight when the knock came.

  It wasn’t a call.

  It was a signal.

  The suite opened to a procession of silk and whispers: gleaming cases, lacquered boxes, perfume bottles that seemed to hold liquid secrets. The team entered with measured, almost choreographed steps. Five stylists. A world-renowned hairdresser. Two assistants who never let go of the locked jewelry cases.

  Angelica Brown remained in the doorway.

  She didn’t speak.

  She merely inclined her head—and that was enough. No one touched anything they shouldn’t. No one asked questions.

  Velka clapped, slicing through the air like a golden bell.

  —Start with me, please! —she said, shrugging off her jacket with a dramatic spin—. If I’m going to be sacrificed on the altar of glamour, let it be early.

  Someone laughed. Low. Nervous.

  I tried to follow—but the air wouldn’t reach my lungs. My chest tightened, the way it does before an ambush.

  A pair of hands guided me to a chair in front of a mirror ringed with white light. Too much light. No shadows left to hide in.

  They didn’t ask.

  I just nodded.

  First came the tweezers. Precise. Millimetric. Hair removal performed like minor surgery. It didn’t hurt… or it hurt less than a sword wound. But the burn was different. More intimate. More humiliating.

  It wasn’t my flesh that suffered.

  It was my face.

  Then the brushes. Soft. Methodical. Lashes extended until they brushed against perfection. The exact shade to make my green eyes look more feline. Powder sealing the skin. Highlighter on the cheekbones. A deep, controlled lip color.

  A mouth far too visible for someone who never learned to lie sweetly.

  My hands trembled in my lap. I didn’t stop them. I couldn’t.

  Velka caught my eye in the mirror and winked, her eyeliner sharp as a vaudeville empress.

  —Easy, princess… —she murmured—. They’re carving a sculpture. Then we let it loose to bite, alright?

  I smiled. Barely. Shaking.

  The hairdresser approached. Gloves thin as rice paper. He undid my ponytail with ritual care, freeing each black strand until the light revealed the subtle red undertones. He braided only one side, letting the rest fall over my shoulder like a dark river.

  When he stepped away—

  I saw myself.

  It was me.

  But not entirely.

  It was me filtered through Aurelis’s eyes. The version that didn’t hesitate. That didn’t tremble. That could smile and drown a kingdom at the same time.

  It wasn’t how I wanted to look.

  It was how this city needed me to look.

  And I didn’t hate it as much as I should have.

  I turned.

  Caelia was immaculate: hair gathered into a simple crown, eyes lined like daggers, lips barely touched with old-rose color. Beauty under restraint. Uncomfortable for her.

  Velka was pure smoke and laughter: gilded cheeks, dramatic lashes, lips red as a promise. A weapon she had always known how to wield.

  Neyra… a poisonous flower. Hair tied with a black ribbon. The yellow streak gleaming like a warning sign. Bare lips. Razor-sharp gaze.

  Caelia exhaled, lowering her guard for the first time.

  —…you’re beautiful.

  She said it softly. As if admitting it hurt.

  Velka crossed the room and stopped in front of me. Lifted my chin without asking. Her fingers slid over my hips with a familiarity only she allowed herself.

  —If the Mothers had sculpted a living statue… —she murmured— it would have this waist, princess. Damn it… Aurelis should pay you just for existing.

  I felt the touch. The weight of the gazes yet to come. I swallowed.

  Neyra, rarely playful, added with calm venom:

  Neyra, who rarely joked, added in her dry, cutting way:

  —And Caelia… 36-24-36. The perfect commander’s body—even for a runway full of queens.

  Caelia actually blushed. A real one. She shot Neyra a look that would have flattened an ordinary soldier, but Neyra only smiled, satisfied.

  From the doorway, Angelica watched.

  Silent.

  Approving.

  As if she no longer saw us as people—

  but as pieces ready to be displayed.

  And the ritual, at last, was complete.

  Angelica Brown entered the room the way an empress enters a space that already belongs to her.

  She didn’t hurry. She didn’t announce herself. She was simply there—and the air reorganized around her.

  In her arms, she carried four white fabric garment bags, suspended with the same care one uses for something alive. She didn’t place them down immediately. She studied us first. One by one. Not to measure our bodies—that had already been done—but to assess our state: breathing, posture, the tension held in our shoulders, the precise way we sustained eye contact.

  Only then did she speak.

  —Good —she said, with minimal satisfaction—. You still remember who you are. That helps.

  She laid the garment bags on the sofa as if setting something to rest. Opened them one by one.

  The dresses did not hang.

  They asserted themselves.

  They weren’t earlier sketches, nor “final versions” in any common sense. They were structures meant to inhabit a body, to force it into delivering a message. Every thread felt intentional. Every cut knew exactly what to reveal… and what to deny.

  Angelica approached me first.

  She didn’t hand me the dress. She took my hands and placed them on the dark fabric—heavy, controlled, unyielding. The surface was cold beneath my fingers.

  —This doesn’t cover a girl —she murmured—. It encloses a decision.

  She lifted her gaze just enough to meet my eyes.

  —Impenetrable. Desired. Lethal.

  A pause.

  —If someone gets too close… let it be at their own risk.

  She stepped away without waiting for a reply.

  —And don’t wrinkle it —she added, turning toward Velka—. Please, Aurel… don’t turn it into a carnival before its time.

  —I make no promises —Velka replied, rolling her eyes.

  Angelica didn’t blink.

  She handed Caelia’s dress to her with both hands, almost ceremonially. The fabric was pale, structured, designed to stand on its own.

  —Posture —Angelica said—. This dress doesn’t adorn. It commands.

  A slight adjustment at the shoulder.

  —It will make you walk the way they look at you. Get used to it.

  Caelia nodded, rigid, accepting the sentence without protest.

  Angelica offered Neyra’s without explanation. Simple lines. Clean structure. No excess.

  —She doesn’t need volume —she told the assistant—. Her danger lies in what she doesn’t announce.

  Neyra held the fabric like one receives a blade—without visible emotion, but with full attention.

  Velka was last. Hers looked playful… until you really looked. Calculated slits. Asymmetry that guided the eye. Movement held just short of chaos.

  —Freedom —Angelica said—. But measured.

  She met Velka’s gaze.

  —This dress is a trap wrapped in laughter. Don’t forget which part bites.

  Velka smiled. Genuinely.

  Then came the shoes.

  Impossible heels for Caelia, who had never worn anything like them. She hesitated for half a second before accepting them. Neyra stepped in, took her arm, guided her through two steps.

  —Heel first —she whispered—. Don’t fight the floor.

  Caelia obeyed. Walked. Held herself.

  Angelica observed in silence.

  The jewelry was precise. A necklace for Neyra. Earrings for Velka. A rigid bracelet for Caelia.

  For me—nothing.

  Only a dark crystal vial.

  Angelica opened it just enough for the scent to escape: deep wood, warm resin, something metallic beneath it. Contained fire.

  —This is enough —she said—. You don’t need shine. You need a trail.

  When the clock struck 9:55, we stood aligned before the window.

  Aurelis burned below, still distant. An artificial constellation waiting to be conquered.

  Velka glanced at my reflection in the glass one last time.

  —Princess… —she murmured—. Wearing that, you could rule this city alone.

  I rolled my eyes, but my heart was pounding so hard I felt the fabric vibrate against my skin.

  Caelia brushed my hand.

  —We’re together —she said—. No matter what.

  Velka stepped toward the door.

  —Then… —she grinned— shall we remind Aurelis why Seravenn is still iron beneath all this silk?

  Neyra adjusted her diadem. Ready.

  I nodded.

  One breath.

  And we descended.

  Leaving the Pendleton was a second birth.

  The lobby exploded into light. Flashes like swarms, drones hovering low, voices speaking our names as if they were public property. The silk of my dress whispered against white leather as I stepped into the limousine.

  Caelia sat beside me, straight as a marble obelisk. Velka and Neyra laughed behind us, sharing a private joke I chose not to hear.

  The door closed.

  The city awaited.

  Aurelis unfolded beyond the glass like a living organism: rivers of electric cars flowing in orderly layers, vertical gardens glowing like suspended aquariums, towers so tall they seemed to slice the coastal mist into perfect sheets. Everything gleamed. Everything breathed. Everything was far too awake.

  Advertising screens floated between buildings, looping the same six faces over and over. Theirs. New Althameria’s Icons. Polished smiles, calculated gazes, bodies turned into promise. Mirabelle appeared on almost all of them, her expression identical from every angle, as if the world needed constant reminding of who ruled collective desire.

  For most of the ride, no one spoke.

  Velka and Neyra broke the silence from time to time, bumping knuckles, swallowing laughs that never fully escaped. It wasn’t joy. It was reflex. If Velka stopped joking, something would crack. They both knew it.

  Caelia kept her eyes fixed on the window. She didn’t blink. I knew her well enough to recognize the same tension coiled in her that lived in me—she’d simply learned how to carry the weight without showing it.

  The vehicle glided forward with insulting smoothness. No bumps. No noise. No history.

  Then, without warning, the windows darkened.

  Not gradually. It was as if someone had pulled ink-black eyelids over the city. Aurelis vanished behind polarized glass, and with it the distant murmur, the lights, the sense of motion. Isolation dropped like an elegant curtain.

  Nausea crawled up my throat.

  —Doesn’t it kind of make you want to throw up? —I murmured, barely audible, more confession than complaint.

  Velka answered instantly, like she’d been waiting for it:

  —Oh, princess… as if there weren’t more than ten thousand people waiting for you out there.

  I rolled my eyes. My stomach didn’t settle.

  Caelia let out an exasperated huff. Neyra laughed softly, not looking at anyone, counting something in her head I didn’t want to guess at.

  The vehicle slowed.

  Then stopped.

  The door opened slowly, like the lid of a powder-filled chest.

  First came the breeze—artificial perfume, human heat, contained electricity. Then the vibration. Not noise. A tide. A rhythmic pulse that reached the body before the ears. Something between ceremonial electronic music, orchestral percussion, and a disciplined roar. It didn’t need a name.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  It was Aurelis setting the pace.

  And then I saw it.

  A red carpet stretching impossibly far, so bright it seemed to reach all the way to the golden doors of the Aureum Palace. On either side, metal barriers held back an ocean of bodies: thousands of raised hands, phones held high, eyes wet, voices merging into something no longer individual.

  Giant screens hovered above the crowd, cycling through the faces of the six Icons. First, the world had to be reminded of who it was meant to worship.

  I looked at Velka.

  She met my gaze with a frown… then let out a short, almost nervous laugh.

  —Well —she said— maybe it’s nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine. Not ten thousand.

  I rolled my eyes.

  But I was shaking.

  The world didn’t explode.

  It opened.

  A tide of light wrapped around us in silence first, as if Aurelis were inhaling before screaming. Then came the flashes—thousands layered over one another, drones suspended like crystal insects, floating screens reflecting every angle of our bodies with almost obscene precision.

  The crowd chanted our names with rehearsed devotion. Hands reaching out, tears that were real, hysterical laughter. Children lifted onto shoulders to see better. Adults shoving one another for a second of attention that would never be theirs.

  With every step, my silhouette multiplied in the air—soft filters, flawless framing, a version of me that never sweated or hesitated. A camera followed us closely, hovering at eye level, recording every breath as public property.

  Velka walked ahead, waving shamelessly, throwing wide smiles as if the world were her personal stage. Neyra moved beside her, one hand raised in a restrained gesture that looked more like a blessing than a greeting.

  Caelia stayed one step behind me, upright, immaculate, her presence firm as a line no one dared cross.

  And I… I felt that every blink was a stolen confession.

  The red carpet ended beneath an arch of marble columns bathed in golden light. Behind them, the flag of New Althameria rippled gently, as if even the wind followed instructions.

  That’s where he stood.

  Orión D’Helios.

  He didn’t command through force.

  He commanded through presence.

  Tall, a tailored white suit without a single crease, light brown hair styled with cinematic precision. His smile wasn’t wide or cold—it was exact, designed for cameras that forgave no excess.

  His eyes—light green, almost golden beneath the spotlights—didn’t evaluate. They welcomed. As if everyone before him had already been accepted before arriving.

  Velka froze for half a second. Her mouth parted slightly, shaping a silent word that didn’t need sound.

  Neyra held her breath; her expression was that of someone recognizing a face seen a thousand times—and still not being ready to see it in the flesh.

  Caelia and I felt no threat.

  And that was the strange part.

  There was no internal edge, no immediate calculation of escape routes. No tension in the shoulders. Everything about him felt… accessible. Almost reassuring. As if the night itself had been designed so that nothing could go wrong.

  Orión inclined his head with measured elegance. His voice—amplified just enough—flowed like a gentle anthem:

  —Welcome, honorable goddesses of Seravenn. —He gestured broadly toward the Palace Aureum behind him, splendid, impossible—. My home is your home tonight.

  He stepped a little closer. His perfume was clean, expensive, intimate without being invasive.

  —This evening is for the people —he continued—, for our sisterhood… and to remind the world that New Althameria honors the sacred and the beautiful alike.

  Nothing in his tone demanded obedience.

  Nothing commanded.

  Everything invited.

  With a light gesture—almost choreographed—he ushered us forward.

  Velka, still mesmerized, murmured softly without taking her eyes off him:

  —Princess… if this man asks me to marry him, I can’t guarantee dignity.

  Neyra let out a low, genuine laugh—so human it caught me off guard.

  Caelia leaned slightly toward me, her voice calm, no tension in it—only quiet certainty:

  —He’s not dangerous —she said—. That’s what makes him interesting.

  I nodded without answering.

  As we moved beneath the lights of the Palace Aureum, I thought she might be right.

  And that, for the first time in a long while, I didn’t know exactly where to sink the blade.

  Beyond the doors—opened wide like a golden heart—the rest of the Icons awaited us…

  and the celebration that would devour everything that was still only ours.

  The Golden Hall breathed down the back of my neck.

  White marble, columns tall as oaths, light spilling from impossible stained glass. Every surface reflected us back as polished versions of ourselves: Caelia upright like a statue of war, Neyra sharp and attentive, Velka vibrating with energy she didn’t quite know where to put.

  Orion stood at the center—calm carved in white.

  He raised his hand.

  The murmur swallowed itself.

  —Aurelis —he proclaimed—, I present to you the embodiment of dance. The woman who turns every step into dominion: Selene Fierro Avens.

  I saw her before I heard her.

  She didn’t walk.

  She moved.

  Her bare feet touched the marble with absolute precision. There was no hesitation, no wasted sound. The contact was direct, intentional—like the floor itself answered to her. Her black skirt opened with every minimal turn; her dark braid, threaded with green strands, fell down her back like a living extension of her spine.

  It wasn’t negligence.

  It wasn’t rebellion.

  It was method.

  The nation knew it. You could feel it in the flashes that lingered a second too long, in the murmurs rippling through the hall like electric current, in the way the side screens replayed her silhouette from reverent, low angles—devotional, almost.

  Selene looked at me first.

  She didn’t smile.

  She didn’t blink.

  She measured me with the same attention one gives a structure: collarbone, posture, the tension held in my shoulders, the firm line of my hips. I felt—without knowing why—that she had already filed me away somewhere silent in her mind.

  Velka brushed my shoulder and murmured, amused:

  —That look, princess… that’s not flirtation. That’s surgical. I love it.

  Selene stopped beside Orion and inclined her head with the precision of a blade sliding back into its sheath.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t need to.

  Her silence scraped the air, as if the entire hall had held its breath waiting for permission to move.

  Orion lowered his hand.

  Selene stepped forward again—two steps, straight toward us.

  For a moment, I thought she would stop in front of Velka, who had already stepped half a foot ahead, curious as always. But no.

  Selene’s shadow halted directly in front of me.

  Close.

  Too close.

  Her voice was soft, polished by discipline and repetition:

  —I hope your visit will be… inspiring.

  Her gaze flicked from me to Velka, who raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained.

  Selene tilted her head just slightly, as if examining a valuable piece under a different light.

  —Aurelis feeds on perfection. Sooner or later… we all learn how to offer it.

  She turned then toward Caelia, measuring her martial bearing without judgment, then to Neyra, who didn’t avert her eyes for even a second.

  A minimal glimmer of a smile.

  —Welcome.

  Without waiting for a response, she returned to Orion.

  Her bare feet made not a single sound against the marble.

  Velka let out a low whistle:

  —I’m definitely stealing that confidence… even if it costs me an ankle.

  I didn’t reply.

  But I knew, with an uncomfortable certainty, that Selene didn’t dance to seduce.

  She danced to direct.

  And Aurelis obeyed.

  Orion raised his hand again.

  The music changed without changing—its rhythm slowed, thickened, as if the air itself had learned to breathe differently.

  —Aurelis exhales desire —he proclaimed, his voice knowing exactly where to caress—. And the one who embodies it… is our endless flame: Ahnna Lux.

  The doors opened.

  And the hall inhaled.

  Ahnna appeared wrapped in a cascade of wine-colored fabric, so fluid it seemed adhered to her skin by will rather than stitching. The dress did not draw boundaries—it suggested them. Her ash-blonde hair fell loose, disciplined in its lack of discipline, drifting behind her like perfumed smoke.

  She did not walk fast.

  She did not need to.

  Each step dictated the cadence of every gaze.

  Her scent arrived before her voice—sweet, deep, almost creamy… familiar. I tensed without knowing why. I had smelled it before. In vitrines. In sealed advertisements. Never like this. Never alive.

  Velka bit her lower lip, not bothering to hide it.

  —Oh, Aurelis… —she murmured—. Give me one night with that and I swear I’ll behave badly.

  Neyra let out a low laugh. Even Caelia blinked twice, uncomfortable, as if her body had reacted before her reason.

  Ahnna stopped in front of us.

  Her golden eyes swept over Velka first, with a smile calibrated for cameras. Then Neyra, whom she held a heartbeat longer, assessing her the way one assesses something dangerous but intriguing. Caelia received a slight bow of the head—almost respectful.

  And then…

  she looked at me.

  Not immediately.

  A heartbeat late.

  Her eyelids tightened by a fraction. Her breathing shifted—minimal, imperceptible to anyone not trained to survive—and her smile arrived after, reconstructed, flawless.

  Too flawless.

  For one fleeting instant, I saw something else in her gaze. Not desire. Not curiosity.

  Recognition.

  As if she had expected to see me somewhere else.

  Or nowhere at all.

  Her mouth parted slightly, as though she were about to say something not in the script. Then it closed.

  —Welcome… —she whispered.

  The last syllable trembled just enough not to be a mistake.

  Velka, far too aware of my stiff shoulders, murmured only to me:

  —Did you see that, princess? —she smirked—. She looked at you like the floor shifted beneath her… and not because she’s jealous of your hips.

  I didn’t answer.

  Ahnna had already turned on her heel, every strand of her hair describing a perfect, controlled curve, and returned to Selene as if nothing had happened.

  Not a crack.

  Not a confession.

  But something had.

  And it wasn’t going to stay there.

  Orion didn’t need to raise his voice.

  It was enough for him to turn his torso just slightly, as if the entire hall were a natural extension of his gesture.

  —Aurelis —he said, with that impeccable calm I was already beginning to recognize as his signature—. Allow me to present the jewel that inspires our academies, the standard by which youthful excellence is measured… the Voice of Impeccable Discipline: Aurora Veil Wynnfield.

  There was no music.

  No grand announcement.

  Only the delicate sound of a long skirt brushing against marble.

  Tiny pearls chimed along each hemline—not as ornament, but as warning: look closely, do not fail.

  Aurora emerged slowly, as if afraid of disturbing even the air.

  Her skin—too pale beneath the golden light—returned the glow like damp porcelain. Shoulders drawn inward. Spine held straight to the point of pain. Hands clasped in front of her abdomen, with just enough pressure not to tremble… or, if they did, so no one would notice.

  She wore lace gloves.

  Her green-gray eyes lifted.

  And they looked at me first.

  It wasn’t an aggressive gaze.

  It wasn’t desire.

  It wasn’t challenge.

  It was something worse.

  A silent, surgical evaluation. It traced my face, the line of my jaw, the way I carried my weight on one foot. As if searching for an old fracture—not to strike it, but to confirm that it existed.

  A cold prick bloomed beneath my sternum.

  Beside me, Caelia held her breath without realizing it.

  Neyra tilted her head just slightly, studying Aurora the way one studies a weapon that looks too fragile to be real.

  It was Neyra who spoke, quietly—no mockery, no lightness in her tone:

  —By all the gods… someone should hug her.

  Velka frowned, uncomfortable, and added a moment later, lower, almost reluctantly:

  —…or let her break already.

  Aurora took two steps forward.

  Each one felt rehearsed since childhood.

  When she spoke, her voice was correct. Soft. Polished to the limit.

  —I’m… grateful to meet you.

  The sentence came out perfect. Too perfect.

  She swallowed.

  The movement was minimal, but I saw it—the tension in her throat, as if her entire body were punishing itself for not having said something better.

  —I’m sorry if… —she continued, and for the first time the sentence didn’t reach its end— …if I’m not so…

  She stopped.

  Not because she didn’t know what to say.

  But because no word would ever be enough.

  She bowed.

  Not a theatrical bow.

  Not a stage courtesy.

  An impeccable one. Measured to the millimeter. So precise it hurt to watch. As if her body knew exactly how far it had to bend to avoid deserving punishment.

  I didn’t look at her hands.

  I was afraid to see them trembling beneath the gloves.

  When she straightened, her eyes avoided mine. They passed over Caelia, lingered a fraction of a second on Neyra—too aware, too exposed—and then she returned to Selene and Ahnna Lux, fitting herself back into the perfect line of the Icons.

  The hall seemed to grow colder.

  Not because she had left.

  But because of what she had left behind.

  A shame so dense it settled on our shoulders like an invisible veil. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t external judgment.

  It was the sensation of having been measured…

  and not being sure we had passed.

  I didn’t say anything.

  But I knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that Aurora Veil Wynnfield didn’t need to raise a weapon to wound.

  It was enough for her to exist.

  Orion didn’t bother softening his tone this time.

  His smile shifted just enough to carry a conspiratorial, almost voyeuristic glint.

  —The spectacle that never apologizes… because it never has to —he announced—. Celestine Monroe.

  The echo of high heels crossed the hall before she appeared.

  She didn’t walk.

  She strutted.

  As if the carpet had been designed for her rhythm, not the other way around.

  Her black-indigo hair fell in large waves, threaded with metallic strands that devoured the light and spat it back distorted, exaggerated, impossible to ignore. Her golden eyes, flecked with silver, swept across the room without the slightest intention of pleasing anyone—only of dominating them.

  Celestine let out a low laugh.

  It wasn’t joyful.

  It was the sound of someone enjoying being watched.

  She stopped in front of us and shifted her weight onto one hip, staking her claim. Her long, obsidian-black nails traced her own silhouette with deliberate slowness.

  Velka caught her attention first.

  Their gazes collided.

  Two sharpened smiles, neither willing to yield.

  Celestine tilted her head slightly, appraising her with brazen—almost respectful—interest.

  Then she turned to Caelia.

  She didn’t touch her.

  She didn’t need to.

  She invaded her space with surgical precision—just enough to unsettle, never enough to excuse a reaction.

  —Always this tense, Commander? —she said lightly, the words brushing cruelty—. Aurelis has a way of loosening things that arrive too tightly wound.

  Caelia didn’t step back.

  She didn’t answer.

  Her silence was a wall—and Celestine seemed amused by it.

  Neyra let out a brief exhale, closer to a laugh than a sigh. Celestine glanced at her from the corner of her eye, registered her, then moved on—Neyra wasn’t the spectacle. Not tonight.

  And then…

  She looked at me.

  Unhurried.

  No immediate smile.

  Her eyes traced my loose hair, the line of my shoulders, the waist held tight by silk. Not desire. Inventory.

  When she spoke, her voice dropped just enough to feel personal, even surrounded by witnesses.

  —Beautiful —she said—. If Seravenn ever starts feeling too small… you know where to make noise.

  It wasn’t an invitation.

  It was a public provocation.

  Velka stifled a laugh.

  Neyra turned her face away to hide a crooked smile.

  I didn’t answer.

  I swallowed, aware of something deeply uncomfortable: Celestine Monroe wasn’t trying to charm me.

  She was testing whether she could move me.

  With a clean turn—marked by the sharp crack of a heel against marble—she pivoted and took her place beside the other Icons. Aurora. Ahnna. Selene.

  She was smiling.

  Not like a predator.

  Like someone convinced that, for now, she was still the loudest jewel in Aurelis.

  Orion didn’t need to raise his voice.

  It was enough for him to turn slightly to the side. His smile remained diplomatic, immaculate… but there was a new tension in his shoulders. Subtle. As if even for him, bearing this name carried weight.

  —The mind behind many of our most luxurious dreams —he announced—. The one who grants stages… and withdraws them when they cease to be interesting.

  Camila Ximena Arellano.

  The silence tightened.

  It wasn’t dramatic.

  It was expectant.

  A soft click of low heels broke the air.

  Camila didn’t enter like Celestine.

  She didn’t strut.

  She didn’t even seem interested in doing so.

  She walked like someone already tired of arriving at places everyone else longed to reach.

  Her dark chestnut hair fell loose over her shoulders, streaked with golden strands that caught the light effortlessly. Her almond-shaped eyes, a pale, muted gold, swept across the room without lingering on anyone longer than strictly necessary.

  When she stopped in front of us…

  She yawned.

  Open. Slow. Uncovered.

  Without apologizing.

  Velka let out a muffled huff.

  Neyra blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or analyze.

  Camila stopped. One hand rested on her hip. The other toyed with a delicate bracelet that chimed softly, like a distant bell, indifferent.

  Her voice was a lazy melody, carefully uninterested:

  —The goddesses of Seravenn? —she said.

  Her eyes passed over my face. Dropped to my chest. Returned to my eyes.

  Not with desire.

  But like someone appraising an expensive object before deciding whether it deserved the space it occupied.

  She arched one eyebrow, barely.

  —Pretty. —A pause.— Proper. —Another pause, longer.— I hope you won’t bore me.

  A hot prickle climbed my throat. Anger. Controlled. Swallowed.

  Velka, inevitably, murmured under her breath:

  —Oh, Princess… next time you can bore her with a punch.

  Camila heard her.

  She turned slightly toward Velka, just enough to grant her attention. She gave her a slow, indulgent wink.

  —Or with something more interesting —she replied, without real emotion—. We’ll see.

  And without waiting for a reaction, she turned and returned to the other Icons.

  Indifferent.

  Not because she hadn’t seen us.

  But because, to her, seeing didn’t mean engaging.

  Camila Ximena Arellano didn’t need to provoke, seduce, or humiliate.

  It was enough for her to be bored.

  Orión took his time this time.

  He didn’t speak right away.

  He let the murmur exhaust itself, let the flashes synchronize, let the Golden Hall adjust its breathing around expectation.

  When he finally raised his hand, it wasn’t a grand gesture.

  It was permission.

  —And lastly… —he said, lowering his voice just enough, as if sharing a secret with all of Aurelis at once—. Our living light. The voice that unites us, that soothes us, that reminds us who we are.

  Our Heart.

  Mirabelle Corazón Sterling.

  The air shifted.

  There were no immediate exclamations, no applause. Only a clean, reverent tension, as if the crowd knew what was coming should not be interrupted.

  Music was born between the marble columns: a synthetic choir, delicate as silver thread pulled taut.

  Mirabelle emerged from the arch of light behind Orión—and for an instant she didn’t seem like a girl at all, but an idea.

  Her pearl satin gown fell in pure, restrained lines, almost devotional. Bare shoulders. Waist cinched with a white silk belt. The back open halfway, revealing skin pale as newly polished porcelain.

  Her low ponytails were flawless, now tied with dark velvet ribbons that made the ash-blonde of her hair stand out without a single rebellion.

  Jewelry was minimal: a single white teardrop earring in one ear, enough to catch every spark of light and return it transformed into faith.

  She walked with soft steps, almost floating.

  But the way she held her head—high, exact, irrevocable—reminded everyone that she was not merely adored: she was necessary.

  Velka didn’t breathe.

  Neyra murmured, barely a thread of sound:

  —Perfect… terrifying.

  When Mirabelle reached us, she inclined herself with millimetric precision. Her fringe barely brushed a lash. Her breathing was measured. Too measured.

  —Goddesses of Seravenn —she said, her voice soft, warm, tuned to embrace multitudes—. What an honor to have you beneath our sky.

  Her gaze passed over Caelia, steady. Over Neyra, attentive. It softened on Velka, who answered with a crooked, fascinated smile.

  And when it reached me…

  It lingered one heartbeat longer than necessary.

  Her smile wasn’t for the stage.

  It wasn’t calculation.

  It was real.

  A delicate warmth—almost intimate—that raised goosebumps on my skin like a touch made of ice.

  Trust, yes.

  But also something else: a silent recognition I couldn’t yet name.

  She said nothing more.

  She didn’t need to.

  She turned toward the crowd with the exact grace of a swan trained from the cradle and took her place beside Camila, Celestine, Aurora, Ahnna Lux, and Selene.

  Six Icons.

  Six perfected emotions.

  Six masks without visible cracks.

  The Pantheon of Aurelis was complete.

  And as the Golden Hall exhaled devotion, I understood—with a clarity that froze my blood—that we were not facing mere symbols…

  But an entire system, beautiful and merciless, smiling as it opened its arms to us.

  And that from this night on, it would no longer allow us to look away.