(Late February – The Opera Hall of St. Liora)
The night had the air of a coronation.
The chandeliers of St. Liora glittered like constellations suspended above an empire that had forgotten what reverence was. Every seat was filled — nobles in winter silk, merchants in borrowed finery, the curious and the skeptical alike.
It had been years since Serena Maxwell stood upon any stage. Years since her name had been spoken without pity or scorn.
But tonight, they whispered it again.
"Lady Serena… the Crown's fallen star."
"She's to perform again — for the Duke of Suffox, no less."
"Perhaps redemption sings louder than sin."
Behind the heavy curtain, Serena smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers. The deep crimson silk shimmered in the gaslight — chosen not for beauty, but for the quiet symbolism of flame.
