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The Eve of Ascendance
The grand hall of the Thirteenth House was a vision of decadence. Jewel-toned tapestries draped the walls, depicting the city’s rich history and the dragons that had once soared above its skyline. The chandeliers above sparkled like diamonds, casting a warm glimmer over the guests below. The air was thick with the scent of exotic perfumes, the sounds of laughter, and the delicate clink of fine glassware.
Tonight, the Thanasian elite had gathered for the annual Eve of Ascendance, a ball held each year in anticipation of the Rising, and a celebration like no other—the city’s most opulent event where the wealthy, powerful, and influential mingled under the guise of masks and elegant attire. It was a night to dance, to speak in riddles, to indulge in the pleasures that only the upper echelons of society could afford, and to place their bets on this year's hopefuls.
A sea of masked faces wandered the ballroom—some adorned in elegant feathers, gilded masks, and intricate designs, others in darker, more mysterious styles, their hidden identities adding an extra layer of suspense to the evening. Most were quite uncertain with whom they were truly speaking to, and that was what made it all the more exciting.
At the heart of the room, the floor sparkled with the fluid movements of dancers who wove their way around the grand pillars. A quartet played an enchanting tune, setting the rhythm for a night that promised to be full of secrets and carefully executed moves.
Imogen Celreos stood at the edge of the crowd, her emerald green and gold attire shimmering beneath the chandeliers’ soft glow. Her dress, a slender, backless creation, draped over her form with fluid grace, hugging her curves before cascading to the floor in a swirl of dark fabric. The emerald silk caught the light, sparkling ever-so-slightly and her mask, a work of art, was sculpted to resemble a dragon’s scales, delicate yet fierce. Appropriate.
Her eyes swept over the room, scanning the guests—each of them with their own secrets behind their masks. But her attention was momentarily pulled by a familiar voice.
Across the room, standing by the edge of the dance floor, was her brother, Ivan. His short, platinum blonde hair glinted under the lights as he leaned in toward a small group of giggling women, each fluttering their fans and eyeing him with unmistakable interest. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, his demeanor the perfect balance of charm and arrogance. He flashed them a brilliant smile, one that made the women blush and giggle all the more, hanging on his every word.
Imogen rolled her eyes, and picked up an ornate goblet of fine wine. She moved through the ballroom, chains of gold dripped down her back and arms, her dress flowing in a fluid, serpentine motion as she walked. Her posture was straight, confident, and poised—a predator among prey in a sea of masked faces. But beneath that mask, there was no hesitation. Tonight, the ball would be a game, and Imogen had come to play.
The grand hall of the Thirteenth House was a vision of decadence. Jewel-toned tapestries draped the walls, depicting the city’s rich history and the dragons that had once soared above its skyline. The chandeliers above sparkled like diamonds, casting a warm glimmer over the guests below. The air was thick with the scent of exotic perfumes, the sounds of laughter, and the delicate clink of fine glassware.
Tonight, the Thanasian elite had gathered for the annual Eve of Ascendance, a ball held each year in anticipation of the Rising, and a celebration like no other—the city’s most opulent event where the wealthy, powerful, and influential mingled under the guise of masks and elegant attire. It was a night to dance, to speak in riddles, to indulge in the pleasures that only the upper echelons of society could afford, and to place their bets on this year's hopefuls.
A sea of masked faces wandered the ballroom—some adorned in elegant feathers, gilded masks, and intricate designs, others in darker, more mysterious styles, their hidden identities adding an extra layer of suspense to the evening. Most were quite uncertain with whom they were truly speaking to, and that was what made it all the more exciting.
At the heart of the room, the floor sparkled with the fluid movements of dancers who wove their way around the grand pillars. A quartet played an enchanting tune, setting the rhythm for a night that promised to be full of secrets and carefully executed moves.
Imogen Celreos stood at the edge of the crowd, her emerald green and gold attire shimmering beneath the chandeliers’ soft glow. Her dress, a slender, backless creation, draped over her form with fluid grace, hugging her curves before cascading to the floor in a swirl of dark fabric. The emerald silk caught the light, sparkling ever-so-slightly and her mask, a work of art, was sculpted to resemble a dragon’s scales, delicate yet fierce. Appropriate.
Her eyes swept over the room, scanning the guests—each of them with their own secrets behind their masks. But her attention was momentarily pulled by a familiar voice.
Across the room, standing by the edge of the dance floor, was her brother, Ivan. His short, platinum blonde hair glinted under the lights as he leaned in toward a small group of giggling women, each fluttering their fans and eyeing him with unmistakable interest. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, his demeanor the perfect balance of charm and arrogance. He flashed them a brilliant smile, one that made the women blush and giggle all the more, hanging on his every word.
Imogen rolled her eyes, and picked up an ornate goblet of fine wine. She moved through the ballroom, chains of gold dripped down her back and arms, her dress flowing in a fluid, serpentine motion as she walked. Her posture was straight, confident, and poised—a predator among prey in a sea of masked faces. But beneath that mask, there was no hesitation. Tonight, the ball would be a game, and Imogen had come to play.
