The manicured gardens of the Avery estate were suffocatingly pristine. Rows of white marble pavilions were carved with intricate floral vines, and gravel paths wound through lawns so perfectly leveled they looked artificial. The garden was filled with the sweet scent of Omega pheromones, so strong it seemed to hang over everything. Dressed in soft pastels and fine silks, the noble ladies and lords moved slowly in small moved slowly in small, coordinated clusters along the garden paths, their hushed giggles and sharp whispers rising over the soft plucking of a harp playing near the fountains.
Mingling near the shade of a grand willow tree stood Marchioness Avery, the very picture of imperial high-society arrogance, a delicate glass in hand as she chatted with her guests. Right beside her stood Philia.
