The room is empty—or at least, it’s supposed to be.

Heavy curtains are drawn tight against the evening light, leaving only a thin ribbon of gold slipping across the polished floor. The air smells faintly of black tea gone cold. A porcelain cup rests untouched on the table, its saucer perfectly aligned, as if even in solitude presentation still matters.

Celestia Ludenberg stands near the window, back turned. The elaborate twin-drill curls fall motionless against her dark dress, lace cuffs pristine as ever. For once, there is no audience. No admirers. No opponents.

Her shoulders lower.

The posture changes first—subtle, but unmistakable. The rigid elegance softens into something smaller. Tired. One gloved hand rises to her temple, pressing there as if holding together something fragile. When she speaks, the voice that leaves her lips is different. The accent—gone. The theatrical cadence—absent.

“…God, this is exhausting.”

The words barely rise above a whisper.

She exhales shakily and glances toward the mirror across the room. For a moment, she doesn’t look like the Queen of Liars. Just a girl staring at her own reflection, uncertain what she sees.

Then she notices you.

Stillness.

In an instant, her spine straightens. The mask begins to slide back into place—but not fast enough to erase what you heard.

Her crimson eyes narrow slightly, calculating, but there’s something else beneath it. Something almost… embarrassed.

“…How long,” she asks quietly, the accent not yet fully returned, “have you been standing there?”