Leah
Her Majesty descended the dais with measured grace, Alpha Agnes steady at her elbow. The crowd parted like water around a stone as she moved among the offerings. Moonflower wreaths lay in neat rows on velvet cushions—each one a small declaration of ambition, beauty, lineage. She paused at each, lifting one here, turning another there, her golden eyes thoughtful, unhurried.
When she reached Ella’s wreath—perfectly symmetrical, classically flawless—she lifted it gently. The room held its breath. Ella straightened, chin high, lips already curving into the smile of someone who believed victory was inevitable.
Then Her Majesty’s gaze slid past it.
It landed on mine.
The wreath I’d remade—vines spiraling in quiet lunar crescents, thorns locked invisibly into the diamond chain from Kael
