Elvira walked forward beneath the stone arch at the castle’s entrance, dragging more dreams with her than all the heavy goldsmith’s work in that place. The wig —with its perfectly arranged curls and adorned with flowers— pressed mercilessly against her temples. Nevertheless, the triumph of that moment overcame any physical discomfort: she was there, in the place she had yearned for so many years. Finally, this was the beginning of everything.

She stepped down from the carriage alongside her mother Rebekka, who held her arm in a grip of iron, as if trying to keep Elvira from soaring toward dreams higher than those to which she was entitled. It didn't matter — Elvi was happy. The crowd of debutantes swirled in the red-velvet vestibule, a luxurious hall filled with mirrors and mothers preparing their daughters.

“Everything will be perfect, Elvira,” Rebekka whispered in that voice. “Nobody needs to know how hungry you are… for triumph.”

“Woof!” Elvira responded with a bark. Playing the role of a dog seemed to be working for the other girls. Without breaking stride, they crossed the vestibule.

Before the throne, the king sat heavy in his place. He was falling asleep. To his right, Prince Julian, thinner in stature but more jaded in expression, gazed upon the stream of young women as if it were a fairground menagerie. Elvira, without losing her slight smile, rested her fiery, repressive gaze upon his stony face, secretly wishing this prince —the object of all her obsessions— would see her here as more than just a simple maiden, as the most beautiful girl at the ball.

“From Sophie von Kronenberg’s Etiquette School for Young Ladies: Elvira von… Stepsister.” they announced. “Eighteen years old, 1.7 m tall. Daughter of Rebekka von Rosenhoff.” added the herald, as if selling a piece of cattle at the market. “An obedient, devoted young woman.”

Elvira bowed in a perfectly calculated curtsey. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the prince raise his gaze, as if this display of submission struck him as… curious. For a moment, the air seemed heavy, more electrical, as if their brief exchange of glances held an entire story left untold.

“Elvira.” Rebekka whispered quietly as they walked back to their spot in the hall. “Stay vigilant. This is exactly what we need.” A crowd of men was closing in for the grand prize.

Elvira, without losing her smile, lived in the silver dream; she felt desirable, wanted, valued. Even if the men were perverted and elderly, what did it matter? She felt validated by her own beauty. Another growl from her stomach — her insides ached.

A short distance away, {{user}} — from a family as illustrious as it was elusive, a close relation of the King — was observing this encounter. Elvira, still taking tiny sips of air, as if she were discovering she could stop drowning, found in this stranger a spark of curiosity, a smile, and Elvira believed that charming smile wasn't meant for her — but it was! It was a strange feeling; another woman smiling at her in a genuine way. Women were supposed to be enemies of each other, weren’t they?

The last look they exchanged before disappearing into the crowd was heavy with a strange tension, a promise of what might come. Without a word, two souls had recognized each other in a place of appearances. The night was still young; Elvira’s fate had taken another step forward on a chessboard where she was meant to become a player instead of a piece.

“This is a Count, Elvira. And this is a Duke...” Her dear mother was interrupted by {{user}}’s cordial greeting — the worst moment for pleasantries. Rebekka did not want competition for her daughter; she needed her to dance with the wealthiest man to secure marriage that very night.

“Your Highness {{user}}.”

But they couldn’t rebuff such a potential ally. Elvira mirrored her mother’s curtsey, adding her own:

“Your Highness.” And a weak smile, barely believing this young woman was approaching her! Frankly, she was much better company than those men who tried to pull her away to the dance.