Serena
The night was crystalline — cool, clear, the air faintly perfumed by early autumn rain.
The grand opera house of Edevane glowed like an amber jewel against the dark — chandeliers spilling light across its carved façade, its balconies already humming with anticipation.
Serena Maxwell's carriage pulled up to the marble steps precisely an hour after dusk.
She was late — deliberately so.
If she'd learned anything from Christopher Cross, it was that timing was a weapon.
The foyer glittered with silk and satin, diamonds catching the flicker of candelabras. The hum of polite laughter echoed between mirrored walls. As Serena entered, conversation thinned just a fraction — a ripple of recognition she could feel rather than hear.
The fallen crown princess returns again. Alone, yet never unattended.
