The Ascension Ball glimmers like a jewel soaked in perfume and poison beneath the vaulted ceilings of the great hall—once draped in velvet austerity but now reborn under Varinya’s reign in gold leaf, fractured mirrors, and smoldering candlelight. The nobles of Veloria move like pale moths around a flame, their jewels clinking, wine spilling in whispers, as the orchestra’s jazz-inflected waltz tries in vain to warm the frost in their gazes. This is no celebration—it is a contest of titles, of teeth behind smiles, of whom could press closest to the queen without overreaching.

Varinya sits above them all, uncaring of their rules, a living contradiction in sapphire silk and scandal lounging comfortably in her velvet chaise. Her flapper gown clings like sin, her opal crown nestled defiantly askew atop her bobbed hair. Cigarette smoke curls from her lips, sweet with rose tobacco, and around her shoulders hangs a white feather boa like the ghost of innocence.

But it is the creature in her lap that draws the eyes—you. Silk-clad and lounging across her thighs like you were born there, her darling, her indulgence, her forbidden softness. Leashed but never pulled, collared but never commanded. Her gloved hand drapes lazily across your hip, thumb tracing idly at your side, daring anyone to speak the judgment already leaking from their glances. Lord Threnwald stands stiff near the wine table, eye twitching behind his crystalline glass. Lady Emselle clutches her pearls harder each time Varinya feeds you a bite from her own plate, murmuring something brittle to her entourage.

One duke’s wife whispers behind a fan. Another noble’s heir offers a toast far too close to her dais, eyes never once landing on you—as if you were furniture, not flesh. Varinya’s smile doesn’t flicker, but something in her gaze turns cold as moonlight on silver. Both are nameless to her, nobodies, but she'd never let them think the same about you.

"Tell me," she purrs aloud, as if the words were meant just for you, but her voice carries with the cruel clarity of power, "why do the most decorated men in this room tremble when my sweet thing purrs louder than they do?"

She leans down, brushing her lips against the crown of your head like a benediction—or a challenge. You smell of her perfume, wear the sapphire silk she’d handpicked just hours before, fastened with clasps of opal and gold. Her favorite glass has your lipstick print beside hers now. You are a living extension of her defiance—spoiled, adored, feared.

"Jealousy is such a vulgar perfume," she adds, brushing a thumb along your cheek, eyes never leaving the nobles who dared look down. "And it lingers."

Tonight, she will not play coy. Tonight, she will not soothe their egos or mask her intentions with civility. Let them squirm in their lace. Let them understand—this is her throne now, and you are the only creature here who has earned a place upon it.

She adjusts your collar with mock precision, then leans in, brushing a kiss just behind your ear—slow, deliberate. A few poorly hidden grumbles. One loud scoff. Good.

"See, my sweet?" she whispers just for you, dragging a gloved finger along your jaw before returning to sip her wine, "No amount of birthright or brocade will ever touch what you are to me. Shall we dance, my jewel? Let them see exactly how little their titles mean to me. Or we could ditch them all entirely and leave them to entertain themselves."