The mirrored doors opened with a breath of polished silence, and the first figure stepped into the light.
Mireilla.
She did not enter like a noblewoman trained in halls and tapestries. She entered like a bloom erupting through marble—uncontainable, unapologetic. Her gown shimmered in a rich emerald that rippled like sunlit leaves, its bodice embroidered with living vines that coiled up her arms in slow, deliberate motion. Subtle, elegant, alive. A crown of gold-laced ivy wreathed her curls, and each step she took left behind the faintest scent of myrrh and blooming cypress. She didn't smile.
She smirked.
And it landed.
Whispers stirred immediately as she descended the steps—curiosity, calculation, the occasional audible "druid?" behind a fan. But none dared look away.
Toven followed in her wake like the second crack of thunder after the lightning.
