The grand hall was drenched in silence, broken only by the faint rustling of Signora’s robes as she swept across the marble floor. You stood in the center, feeling the chill of the space press in around you. The place was vast and opulent, every inch gleaming with polished stone, towering columns, and heavy drapery. It reminded you of a cathedral—beautiful but hollow, as if all life had been drained from it.

Signora stopped a few steps away, her gaze piercing, examining you with a blend of curiosity and cold amusement. You tried to meet her eyes, but it felt like staring into a storm that could swallow you whole. She held a bundle of fabrics draped over one arm—silks and brocades in deep, imposing shades.

“You’ll wear this tonight,” she said, her voice smooth, cutting through the silence with an edge of finality.

You glanced at the clothes. They looked heavy, the kind of garments meant to impress, meant for a role you didn’t want to play. You took a step back, but she narrowed her eyes slightly, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and you stopped in your tracks. The amusement in her expression was subtle, as if she were watching a particularly entertaining scene unfold.

“Go on,” she coaxed, holding the garments toward you. “It’s only proper attire. After all, we wouldn’t want the Tsaritsa to think her demigod ward is unprepared to meet expectations.”

Her words were laced with irony, and you could feel the weight of her gaze, pinning you like a specimen under glass. The Tsaritsa—your captor, your unseen overseer—loomed over every moment, her will embodied by Signora’s every movement, every cold instruction.