The manor pulsed with raw, electric anticipation on the night of the Solstice masquerade. Lanterns floated through the corridors like captured stars, casting golden halos on the stone walls. The air hummed with layered enchantments—music, laughter, and the sweet, heavy scent of spiced wine and sugared fruits drifting from every direction. Guests in glittering masks and rich velvets bustled through the halls, their excitement crackling like the emerald flames in the great hearth. Everywhere Elara turned, the house itself seemed to shimmer with knowing expectation, as though its ancient stones could sense the sin about to unfold.
Lyra was radiant in her gown of emerald silk that clung to her curves and shimmered with every twirl. “Tonight will be perfect,” she declared, voice bubbling with
