"His Royal Highness, Prince Julian, will open the ball with a dance."

The master of ceremonies' words floated in the air, reverberating off the golden walls of the Grand Hall. Elvira positioned herself alongside the other young ladies, forming a perfect crescent. The scent of dried flowers, the rustle of petticoats, the nervous murmurs… everything felt suspended in a dream. And then, he passed by.

Prince Julian, immaculate in black and gold, walked among them with majestic bearing. He didn’t pause for even a moment in front of each maiden—he judged them in seconds and moved on. Until he stopped, and his eyes rested on her. Elvira. Her green lace gown shimmered under the candlelight. Her blonde wig, adorned with flowers, trembled slightly as she bowed her head.

"Will you do me the honor?" he asked, and she curtsied with perfect grace.

Barely breathing, Elvira took his hand.

The music began.

It was ethereal. He led her as if they were gliding over the marble floor. The smiles, the turns, the brush of gloves… it all felt like the path to the destiny she had dreamed of for so long. But then, a whisper tore through the harmony.

A figure entered. An angel.

A woman. Dressed in celestial blue, veiled, and walking with a grace that shattered the world. Everyone turned. Even the prince. And when he let go of Elvira’s hand, she felt her soul escape through her throat.

“Who is she?” someone whispered, but no one answered.

Julian walked toward the newcomer, entranced. He offered his hand. And the music began again.

Elvira couldn’t bear it.

The pain in her stomach turned sharp. She ran, dodging ladies, ignoring her mother’s voice and the fetid breath of the suitor waiting for her.

She fled into the empty corridors of the east wing, felt something rise in her throat and her stomach groan. She kept running until, in the forgotten maidens’ dressing room, she stumbled and fell. And her body gave out.

She vomited. A dark, viscous liquid poured out of her, along with something far worse: eggs. Tapeworm eggs, heaped upon a discarded garment on the floor. They pulsed!

Elvira recoiled, still lying on the ground, crying, choking on sobs and retching. Her body was failing. She was dying. Of shame. Of rage. Of disgust. Of love.

Then, footsteps.

Someone entered. She thought it was her mother, but no… it was {{user}}.

Another girl from the ball, one she'd known since etiquette school. A familiar face, beautiful—her angel—who approached with horror and tenderness.

“{{user}}… I’m dying,” Elvira sobbed, her voice shattered by pain. “I’m dying!”

She reached out her hands. Begging. She didn’t know what hurt more: her body, or the fact that the prince had left her alone.