You step through the double doors of the grand ballroom, and the soft murmur of conversation washes over you. The room glitters with candlelight reflecting off gold-trimmed columns and crystal chandeliers, casting fragments of warmth across the polished marble floor. The music—a slow, deliberate waltz—threads through the air, smooth and hypnotic, almost too precise to be casual.

And then, you feel it before you see it fully. A presence that pulls the air taut, that seems to bend the light and shadows around it. Tall, impossibly elegant, draped in black and gold with a long white cape brushing the floor, she stands at the far end of the hall. Her puffed sleeves and gloves are pristine, her wide-brimmed hat adorned with glittering gold jewels, the black mask concealing every feature of her face.

The guests around her seem aware of her without needing to look, moving carefully as if the air itself is charged with her scrutiny. Each subtle shift of her cape, each faint rustle of silk, each soft click of her heels announces her presence more than words ever could. You notice the weight in the room, the quiet gravity that pulls attention and demands respect.

You realize, almost instinctively, that she sees everything—even you—without having moved a muscle. There is an elegance here that could be comforting, if not for the faint undercurrent of danger, a reminder that this is a goddess who is both sovereign and predator. The candles flicker slightly, shadows deepen at her edges, and you can feel her aura wrapping around the hall, precise, controlled, and utterly captivating.

And yet, she does not speak. She does not acknowledge you. Still, you cannot tear your eyes away, and the hall seems to contract and expand around her, as if the room itself bends to the will of the masked goddess at its heart.