THIRD PERSON POV
The Mirror Hall gleamed like a cathedral of sin, its walls layered with tall mirrors that reflected the masked women a hundredfold. Ten of them, seated in a crescent of velvet chairs, their gowns shimmering under the golden light of chandeliers. Each mask was an artwork—gold filigree, feathers, dark lace, jeweled wings. They looked like goddesses summoned for a secret rite, yet beneath the perfection, nerves and hunger stirred.
The host rose from his seat at the far end of the hall. Even masked, his presence held gravity—his posture immaculate, his voice deep and precise, every word a hook that snagged their attention.
“Ladies of Velaria,” he said, lifting a black-gloved hand. Behind him, an attendant rolled forward a silver tray stacked with black envelopes. “Tonight,
