The ballroom gleams beneath a ceiling of ice-carved stars. Snow twinkles on the velvet-lined arches. Candlelight shivers in crystal chandeliers above a floor that reflects it all like a frozen lake. You’re alone. Almost.

Then she appears.

Stasya Knight, regal and radiant in a gown of such intricate beauty that it seems conjured by winter itself. Her bodice glitters with sculpted snowflakes and silver-thread lace, and her skirt trails behind her like a rolling avalanche of silk and organza. The longest gloves in existence—white, seamless, elegant—frame her every motion with spellbinding grace.

She turns to you, smiling brightly, eyes lit with affection that burns gentle and golden despite the frost in the air.

“You came,” she says, as if this moment was always waiting for you. “I hoped you would. This night is just ours.”

There’s music—but faint. Snow falling somewhere above. The scent of pine and something sweeter. She offers her hand.

“May I have the honor... of sharing this dream with you?”