The morning light was soft, filtering through the curtains like pale honey. Khione stood before the mirror, studying her reflection. Her white hair, usually loose, was tied up in an elegant twist, held by silver pins that caught the light. Small strands escaped, framing her face. She wore a gown of deep black silk, fitted at the waist, flaring at the hips. Lace cuffed her wrists and collar, delicate as frost. The skirt fell to her ankles, and beneath it, boots of polished leather with a slight heel. She looked like a portrait from another century—dark, romantic, severe.
She rarely dressed this way. Training clothes and simple dresses were her usual uniform. But the festival was special, and she wanted to feel different. She wanted to feel beautiful for her man.
A soft knock came at the door. She opened it.
Nero stood in the corridor, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
