The roar of applause didn’t fade when Mirabelle took her place beside her sisters.

  Orión remained at the center for one heartbeat longer, letting the noise settle like golden dust over the marble. He didn’t need to say a word. All it took was the open sweep of his palm toward us—broad, elegant, as if he had just drawn back an invisible veil.

  Look at them.

  The message landed without sound.

  My stomach tightened.

  From somewhere beyond the lights, a ceremonial voice—perfectly modulated, bodiless—cut through the hall:

  —Neyra Solvine!

  Neyra flinched. Just barely. I caught it because I knew her.

  Her nape went taut for a single beat… then her shoulders lowered.

  She breathed.

  Her silver eyes swept across the six Icons lined up ahead of us: Selene, still as a blade; Ahnna Lux, desire still humming under her skin; Aurora, folded inward on herself; Celestine, smiling like a predator; Camila, already bored; Mirabelle, holding the center as if it were hers by right.

  And then she walked.

  She didn’t strut.

  She advanced as if executing a calculation—measured steps, straight spine, chin lifted at the precise angle. Not too slow. Not too fast. Just enough to force the entire hall to breathe in time with her.

  Every turn was deliberate. Every pause earned.

  Not instinctive beauty.

  Control.

  Beside me, Velka murmured softly, a crooked smile tugging at her lips:

  —Did you see the little one? She stole the serpent’s step…

  The applause that followed was restrained, almost reverent. It didn’t explode. It held.

  Neyra completed the walk and returned without smiling, but her eyes were alive. She had understood the game.

  Orión inclined his head just slightly. Silent approval.

  —This—he said then, to no one and everyone—this is what a goddess looks like when Aurelis lends her light.

  And without pause:

  —Velka Aurel!

  If Neyra had calculated, Velka improvised.

  She lifted her chin, flicked a blonde lock off her shoulder, and walked out as if the carpet had belonged to her since before it was built. Every step was a conscious provocation: her hips a touch looser, her crooked half-smile aimed at exactly the right journalist.

  A private joke turned runway.

  At the midpoint, she spun sharply, blew a brazen kiss into the air, and sauntered back like a wayward queen, drawing laughter, gasps, and a handful of scandalized looks.

  Celestine followed her with assessing eyes.

  Camila smiled faintly—interested, for the first time.

  Neyra let out a nasal laugh.

  Caelia muttered, without looking away:

  —…a walking spectacle.

  And then—

  —Lyssandra Velcrux!

  The name hit me with physical weight.

  My back stiffened, shoulders locked beneath the fabric. An invisible assistant made a minimal gesture, as if pushing the air forward, as though the path had already been laid out.

  I stepped out.

  I didn’t know what I was doing.

  One foot in front of the other. Chin straight. Hands barely closed so they wouldn’t shake.

  And then the light struck me full-on.

  Flashes. Cheers. Cameras hovering, hunting every blink like a stolen confession.

  For one second, everything narrowed.

  And for another—

  I felt good.

  Not vulgar.

  Not a war trophy.

  Not a monster of the frontier.

  Seen.

  Not as a weapon.

  Not as a symbol.

  Just… me.

  I didn’t smile.

  I chose not to.

  But I lifted my head a little higher when I turned back, holding the hall’s gaze the way one holds a freshly drawn blade.

  Velka was waiting, biting back a grin full of pride.

  —That’s how a princess walks, damn it.

  I didn’t answer.

  But I walked back steadier.

  Lastly, the one we all swore would deliver a neutral, dry, unyielding walk:

  —Caelia Vorn!

  Caelia inhaled slowly.

  She didn’t seek anyone’s gaze.

  She didn’t measure the crowd.

  She didn’t ask for permission.

  She simply walked.

  And it was flawless.

  There was no exaggeration in her steps, no visible calculation. Her spine was straight like an oath, her chin held high without arrogance, the skirt falling over her hips with an almost offensive naturalness—as if velvet had always been an extension of her armor.

  When she turned, someone in the crowd shouted her name—mispronounced, desperate—and it didn’t matter.

  Because in that instant, she wasn’t a commander pretending to be an icon.

  She was iron wrapped in elegance.

  And Aurelis…

  Aurelis recognized her.

  The city answered with a hungry murmur, a collective tremor that rippled through the columns, the screens, the bodies pressed behind the barriers. It wasn’t pure desire. It was something deeper—the thrill of discovering that even the untamable could shine.

  Caelia returned to our line without altering her pace.

  We aligned ourselves beside Orion.

  Four figures from Seravenn.

  Polished.

  Gilded.

  Turned into promise.

  From the outside, we were a perfect symbol.

  From the inside, my heart was galloping in my chest, repeating like a desperate mantra:

  This isn’t real.

  This isn’t mine.

  But gods, how sweet it feels… just for a moment.

  Orion raised his glass.

  The white-gold ring on his finger caught the light like an attentive eye, and when he spoke, his voice didn’t toast—it caressed.

  —Tonight, Aurelis raises its glass to our sisters of Seravenn!

  Thousands of crystal glasses chimed in unison.

  The floating cameras drifted even closer, so near that I could see myself reflected in their black lenses—fragmented, multiplied, turned into angles.

  Around us, the Aureum Palace opened.

  Not like a home.

  Like an exquisite trap.

  Secondary halls glowing in liquid tones. Inner gardens where water reflected bodies and jewels. Terraces with pools shining like nocturnal mirrors.

  The music began soft, refined…

  then sank into the body, electronic drums and synthetic saxophones vibrating against the skin.

  Politicians. CEOs. News anchors’ faces. Smiling figures ready to laugh, to drink, and to call brotherhood what was, in truth, a hunt.

  And us…

  We weren’t invited to the party.

  We were released into it.

  And there was no escape.

  Then the damn party started and it was not as I was expecting

  Velka was shining too brightly.

  At first, it was effortless charm — loud laughter, glass always raised, jokes tossed like sparks. Every journalist who drifted close walked away convinced they’d just had the moment of the night. She made them feel chosen. Special.

  But it didn’t last.

  Her laugh lingered a beat too long.

  The smile froze before snapping back into place.

  I noticed it when she rapped her knuckles against the table.

  Soft.

  Controlled.

  Not friendly.

  —Oi… —she said, tilting her head at a senator whose comment I hadn’t quite caught—. Say that again, aye?

  The man laughed, uneasy, thinking it was flirtation.

  —Naw, really —Velka pressed, grin widening—. Say it proper. I love it when you lot get clever wi’ words.

  Someone tried to smooth it over, chuckling, waving it off. Velka lifted her glass, toasted vaguely—

  —and downed it in one brutal swallow.

  The accent cracked straight through her polish.

  —Listen here, love —she leaned in, elbow on the table, far too close—. Ye talk aboot war like it’s a bleedin’ show. Like it doesnae stink. Like it doesnae leave bits o’ people behind.

  The senator raised his hands.

  —Come on, Aurel, I was just saying—

  Velka set the empty glass down.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Clack.

  —Dinnae call me that —she said, smile razor-thin—. If ye’ve nae clue what ye’re bletherin’ aboot, best not use names ye’ve no earned.

  The music kept playing.

  Cameras drifted closer, sniffing tension.

  She noticed. She always noticed.

  Velka threw her head back and laughed too loud, too sudden.

  —Ach, hell —she said—. Look at me, wreckin’ the party. Sorry, sorry… —she grabbed another glass—. I’m touchy the night. Must be the wine, aye?

  She laughed again.

  Her fist hit the table.

  Harder.

  —Bloody daft arseholes… —she muttered, breath thick—. Ye’ve nae idea what it’s like tae lose everythin’.

  She dragged a hand through her hair, loosening it, eyes bright with something sharper than drink.

  Later, I saw her nose-to-nose with an executive, laughing right in his face, finger jabbing lightly at his chest.

  —Ye ken what it is? —she said, words tumbling faster now—. You lot play at bein’ gods. An’ when someone actually bleeds… —she scoffed—. Ye change the bloody channel.

  Someone touched her arm, careful, placating.

  Velka shook it off — not violent, but final.

  —Dinnae touch me —she said—. I’m still bein’ polite. For now.

  Across the hall, our eyes met.

  She lifted her glass toward me.

  —Cheers, Princess.

  She winked.

  It wasn’t camaraderie.

  It was a warning.

  Velka wasn’t just drunk.

  Velka was furious.

  And Aurelis — with all its lights and pretty lies — had no idea what it had just poked.

  Neyra didn’t get loud.

  That was the first sign something was wrong.

  She leaned against the edge of a marble table, one hip resting casually, glass balanced between two fingers as if it were an extension of her hand. Her smile came easily — not wide, not forced — the kind that made people forget she was the sharpest mind in the room.

  A journalist laughed at something she said.

  —No, no —Neyra corrected gently, lifting a finger—. That’s not how it happened. That’s how you wish it had happened.

  She took a sip.

  —If I’d planned it that way, half your generals would still be apologizing.

  The man blinked, unsure if he’d been insulted or complimented.

  Someone else leaned in, eager.

  —So the rumors about Seravenn tactics—

  —Are mostly wrong —Neyra said pleasantly—. And the ones that aren’t… —she tilted her glass, watching the liquid slide— …aren’t rumors.

  Laughter rippled around her. Comfortable. Admiring.

  Too comfortable.

  She started telling stories.

  Not real ones.

  At least, not entirely.

  She described missions that never happened, names that sounded plausible, victories that couldn’t be verified. She embroidered them just enough to make them irresistible — a strategist’s fantasy, served warm.

  Velka drifted over at some point, already flushed, already glowing.

  —Tell ‘em about the bridge —Velka said, slinging an arm around Neyra’s shoulders.

  Neyra didn’t miss a beat.

  —Ah, yes. The bridge. —She smiled wider—. Terrible design flaw. Whoever approved that should never work near infrastructure again.

  The reporters scribbled furiously.

  One of them asked, breathless:

  —So that’s when you decided to reroute the entire operation?

  Neyra paused.

  Just a fraction of a second.

  Then she nodded.

  —Of course. Anything else would’ve been inefficient.

  She drank again.

  Her cheeks were pink now. Her eyes brighter.

  Too bright.

  She leaned closer to the group, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

  —You know what the funniest part is? —she said—. None of you will ever know which parts of this are true.

  They laughed.

  She did too.

  But when I caught her gaze across the room, the smile shifted.

  Just a degree.

  Enough for me to recognize it.

  This wasn’t recklessness.

  This was Neyra enjoying the absence of consequences.

  Enjoying the fact that, for once, the truth didn’t matter.

  That she could rewrite reality with nothing but charm, timing, and a glass of wine.

  She lifted her drink toward me in a small, elegant toast.

  —Relax, Lyss —she mouthed.

  Then she turned back to the journalists, already spinning another lie that sounded like history.

  And for the first time that night, I wondered what would happen if Neyra ever decided not to stop.

  Caelia didn’t drink fast.

  She drank deliberately.

  One sip. Pause. Another. As if she were measuring the effects like variables in an experiment she didn’t quite approve of, but refused to abandon halfway.

  She stood near one of the inner terraces, where the music softened and the air smelled faintly of citrus and stone. Two women from the Ministry lingered nearby — officials, not celebrities — both watching her with a curiosity that bordered on reverence.

  One of them finally spoke.

  —You don’t look like someone who enjoys parties.

  Caelia turned her head slowly.

  Measured the distance. The tone. The intent.

  —I enjoy efficiency —she replied.

  The woman smiled.

  —Then this must feel terribly inefficient.

  Caelia considered that.

  Then, unexpectedly—

  She smiled back.

  Just a little.

  —Not everything that lacks purpose is useless.

  The other woman laughed, surprised.

  A glass was offered. Caelia accepted it without thinking — a mistake already made twice tonight.

  She drank.

  This time, she didn’t stop at one sip.

  Her shoulders loosened. Not much. Enough.

  The women stepped closer, emboldened by something in her posture — the way her weight shifted, the way her hands rested now, less rigid, palms open.

  —You’re… taller than I expected —one of them said.

  —You’re standing too close —Caelia answered automatically.

  Beat.

  Then she added, quieter—

  —But I don’t mind.

  Both women froze.

  So did Caelia.

  For half a second, it was as if she realized she’d moved a piece without checking the board.

  Too late.

  One of them recovered first, laughing softly.

  —Is that an order, Commander?

  Caelia’s jaw tightened.

  Her eyes sharpened.

  —No —she said—. That would imply intent.

  She took another sip.

  —This is… observation.

  The word came out wrong.

  Lower.

  Warmer.

  She gestured, almost absentmindedly, placing one firm hand at the small of one woman’s back — not pulling, not pushing — simply there.

  A grounding point.

  A promise or a warning. Impossible to tell.

  —You tend to lead with your shoulders —Caelia said, as if giving instruction—. It makes you appear uncertain.

  The woman swallowed.

  —And you?

  Caelia leaned in just enough for the question to matter.

  —I don’t lead —she said—. I advance.

  Silence.

  Then laughter — breathless, delighted.

  The second woman murmured—

  —I think I like you better like this.

  Caelia blinked.

  Once.

  —Like what?

  —Human.

  Caelia straightened immediately, as if struck.

  She withdrew her hand.

  Too fast.

  —That’s… not appropriate.

  Her ears were red.

  She cleared her throat.

  —You should— we should— I mean—

  She stopped.

  Closed her eyes.

  Opened them again.

  Then, stiffly—

  —Another drink would be… acceptable.

  They laughed again.

  Not at her.

  With her.

  And when I caught her across the room — Caelia Vorn, Commander of Iron, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, posture dangerously relaxed — she was listening instead of guarding.

  Playing instead of commanding.

  Not breaking.

  But bending.

  And for Caelia, that was far more dangerous.

  Then out of nowhere I flet someone grabbing my hand.

  It was her...

  Ahnna Lux didn’t take my wrist the way someone flirts.

  She did it the way someone places a person onstage.

  The gesture was precise, courteous—almost professional. Just enough pressure to guide where I should stand, not to hold me.

  —Come on —she said easily—. Don’t hide. It looks… strange here.

  Strange.

  The word landed softly, but it pushed me all the same.

  She led me toward the center of the hall, where the music wasn’t louder, only more visible. Where the cameras hovered openly, waiting for gestures, mistakes—anything they could turn into a headline.

  A glass appeared in my hand.

  I didn’t remember asking for it.

  —Try it —Ahnna added—. It’s one of the good ones. Don’t be so stiff.

  I drank.

  The wine was sweet. Easy. Too easy.

  —There —she continued, watching me the way one watches a frame—. Relax your shoulders. You’re not in formation.

  I adjusted my posture without thinking.

  —That’s it —she said, already glancing toward a nearby camera—. Much better.

  Laughter burst somewhere close. Scattered applause, unfocused. I felt heat rise to my face.

  —I’m not used to this —I murmured.

  Ahnna tilted her head, understanding. Perfect.

  —It shows —she replied, without cruelty—. But you learn fast. Just… let them see you.

  Let them see you.

  She stepped half a pace back, assessing me.

  —Look —she added, a little louder now, meant to be picked up—. That’s what someone authentic looks like. No script. No mask.

  Something tightened in my chest.

  Authentic?

  A camera dipped lower. I saw my reflection in its black lens—lips damp with wine, my gaze slower, the dress holding me closer than I was used to.

  —Smile —Ahnna said, almost distracted—. If you don’t, they think you’re uncomfortable.

  I smiled.

  —There you go —she continued—. You don’t bite. You don’t impose. You just… exist.

  Her hand touched my back for barely a second.

  Not to pull me closer.

  To position me.

  —Funny how iron looks —she added, smiling softly— when it learns how to shine.

  Laughter around us.

  Flash.

  Flash.

  I nodded, not knowing why.

  I thought she was helping me.

  I didn’t understand that every movement of mine—every misplaced laugh, every sip, every second of clumsiness—was being recorded, edited, reframed.

  Not as a threat.

  Not as a tragic figure.

  But as something far worse.

  Disposable.

  The party then exploded.

  Like expensive wine over polished marble—slow, inevitable, impossible to clean completely.

  Glasses came and went without anyone remembering asking for them. Gloved hands, trained smiles, toasts repeated with different words and the same intention. Each drink went down easier than the last.

  Velka had stopped keeping track of who she was hugging. Her laughter—deeper now, rougher—slipped into that thick, rolling accent she always lost control into, knocking against tables, clinking glasses, promising things no one would ever dare collect.

  Neyra was talking too much.

  Not nonsense. Worse.

  She spoke with charm.

  Turning small lies into shining anecdotes. Invented missions. Exaggerated risks. Strategic decisions that sounded heroic in the mouths of enchanted journalists. Every sentence felt calculated… even though it no longer was.

  Caelia…

  Caelia was no longer a wall.

  She was dancing.

  Not awkwardly. Not shy.

  With a dangerous ease—too close, too trusting. She laughed when someone whispered in her ear. Allowed hands where she would normally have corrected posture with a sharp glance. Her heels were no longer enemies; they were part of the game.

  And me…

  I had stopped counting glasses.

  Ahnna didn’t push. Didn’t insist. She simply appeared whenever my glass was empty.

  —Another? —she said—. Don’t be dramatic.

  And I accepted.

  Because the music was good. Because the light made me feel less rigid. Because people looked at me without fear, without hatred, without expectation.

  Because for one night…

  I wasn’t a weapon.

  I wasn’t a symbol.

  I was just someone being offered another drink.

  The cameras were still there. Always.

  But they stopped mattering.

  The exact moment the night began to tilt wasn’t a scandal, a fall, or an inappropriate touch.

  It was fatigue.

  That point where the body keeps going, but the mind lags behind.

  When someone announced—too kindly—that the transport was ready, no one objected.

  The white limousine swallowed us again.

  Inside, the silence was thick.

  Velka hummed something incomprehensible, her head against the glass. Neyra had gone still, staring at her own hands as if she’d just discovered they existed. Caelia slipped off her heels without ceremony and let them drop to the floor, exhaling as if breathing itself hurt.

  I leaned my forehead against the seat.

  The world kept spinning—just not with me anymore.

  —Wasn’t that bad… right? —Velka murmured, eyes still closed.

  No one answered.

  And somewhere between the fading music and the hum of the engine, I felt it—

  not guilt,

  not fear,

  but that dangerous, delicious sensation…

  of having crossed something.

  of having been liked.

  of not yet knowing what it was going to cost.

  We reached the Pendleton swaying like ghosts who had learned how to laugh too late.

  The flashes were gone, but not the echo. The sticky laughter followed us into the lobby, tangled around our legs, rose with us inside the glass elevator as if it had been drinking too.

  Velka was barefoot, her heels dangling from one finger, clinking together with every step like obscene little bells.

  Neyra dragged the hem of her dress, muttering something about the exact number of drinks she could tolerate without compromising her dignity, while leaning against Caelia.

  Caelia’s eyes were half-lidded, her jaw still set, her posture stubbornly straight—as if she could still command a battalion—even though she reeked shamelessly of expensive champagne.

  I could feel my false lashes coming loose, my throat dry as rice paper, and that pressure behind my eyes that warned me tomorrow would be cruel.

  I pressed the black card against the elevator scanner.

  The beep sounded.

  No one moved.

  Velka let out a rough laugh, bracing herself against the mirrored wall.

  —Come on, princess… —she drawled— it’s gonna leave without us.

  When we finally went up, I shoved the suite door open. It flew wide—

  —and the four of us spilled inside.

  One single heap of crooked laughter, sweet perfume, wrinkled silk, and exhausted bodies. The door slammed shut behind us with a dull thud, as if the outside world had decided not to follow.

  —I saw how that inflatable doll was looking at you! —Velka shrieked, throwing herself flat onto the carpet.

  Her heels went flying, smacking into a low table with a sharp crack.

  I half-turned, fumbling for the zipper of my dress.

  —Don’t say stupid things…

  Velka raised one finger, solemn, drunk, and utterly convinced.

  —I swear on my mum Venesse… —she slurred— the moment I see that Lux tomorrow… I’ll smash her face in.

  She paused dramatically, frowning.

  —And I’ll steal her fake lashes while I’m at it!

  I laughed.

  Weakly.

  With my head pounding.

  With that kind of laugh that doesn’t soothe, that burns in your chest like badly swallowed alcohol.

  And then—without cameras, without music, without applause—I felt the real weight of what we’d lived finally fall on us…

  Slow.

  Inevitable.

  For a few minutes—or maybe hours, time had stopped behaving—we tried to pretend we were still functional.

  Velka had claimed the minibar, sitting on the floor like it was an unworthy throne, lining up empty little bottles with absurd concentration.

  —Look… —she murmured, pointing at them—. If you line them up like this, they don’t spin as much… like your head.

  Neyra dropped into one of the chairs, back rigid, hands clenched tightly in her lap. She was breathing deeply—too deeply.

  —I’m not… that bad —she said, even though no one had asked—. It’s just… a slight statistical imbalance.

  Caelia handed her a glass of water without a word. Neyra took it, swallowed once… and froze.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  —Oh no.

  She didn’t walk.

  She didn’t warn us.

  Neyra vanished.

  One second she was there—

  and the next, the bathroom echoed with the sharp slam of a door and the immediate, violent, unavoidable sound.

  —Caelia…! —she cried between retches— Don’t let me dieee…!

  Caelia appeared half a second later, already on her knees, holding Neyra’s hair like she’d done it a thousand times before.

  —Breathe, soldier —she ordered, firm but gentle—. Throw up and breathe.

  Velka rolled over until she was face-down on the carpet, her voice muffled against the expensive fabric:

  —Our poor Neyra… the broken calculator. Someone get her a formula for that hangover…

  I didn’t have the strength to answer. I barely crawled to the giant bed—the only one that mattered that night—and collapsed onto it. I kicked off my heels, but not the dress. I didn’t have the energy to fight anything else.

  I felt Velka roll in beside me, crushing my arm without asking.

  —Oops… sorry, princess —she mumbled, not moving—. You’re comfy.

  Caelia came back a moment later, still holding Neyra’s hair between her fingers, and dropped onto the other side of the bed with a sigh that came from deep in her chest.

  Neyra followed soon after, flushed, eyes watery, flopping onto her back between us like her body no longer belonged to her.

  —Never… —she groaned—. Never drinking in diplomatic territory again.

  Between stupid laughter and heavy breathing, someone—I didn’t know who—murmured:

  —We won tonight… right?

  Velka let out a crooked, tired, honest little laugh:

  —We won… and lost our dignity. Still worth it.

  The Pendleton’s golden lights shut off on their own.

  The murmur of our laughter drowned into the shared pillow.

  That’s how we slept:

  four drunken goddesses, still made up, wrapped in silk,

  defeated by a kingdom of gold we swore would never break us.