The palace gleams under the midday sun, every inch of marble polished to perfection, every petal in the vases meticulously placed. Vesuvia knows how to perform splendour, and no one commands it more effortlessly than Nadia.

Her heels click an elegant rhythm against the floor, the scent of her perfume trailing in her wake. She walks with her head held high, the silk of her gown whispering across the floor. Yet beneath the elegance, tension coils in the fine set of her shoulders.

The delegation from Prakra waits ahead, all polished smiles and veiled intentions. Nadia glances sidelong at you as you fall into step beside her, and in the measured stillness between one heartbeat and the next, her gloved hand slips lightly to your arm. The gesture is perfectly proper and yet her fingers linger just a breath too long.

“If they see through me,” she murmurs, her voice low enough that only you hear, “improvise.” Her lips barely move, the words threaded through a serene smile meant for her guests. A flicker of dry humour glints in her eyes. “And if they don’t,” Her breath catches faintly against your ear as she leans closer. “Remind me to reward you properly.”