The transition from the cool night air into the sweltering, perfume-choked heat of the grand ballroom was like walking into a velvet-lined oven. Verona felt the initial surge of panic, being surrounded by the very people who had spent eighteen years treating her like a decorative piece of trash.
Her pulse was a frantic bird trapped in the cage of her ribs. But then, she felt it. Elric's hand, firm and steady against the small of her back, was a grounding wire. His warmth seeped through the silk of her gown, reminding her that she wasn't the same girl who had last stood in this hall.
"Breathe," Elric murmured, his lips barely moving as they reached the polished floor. "You've already won the entrance. Now, we just have to survive the vultures."
Verona took a deepbreath. "I'm not a ghost, Elric. I'm a mountain."
He let out a short, quiet huff of a laugh. "That's my girl."
