Then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her, leaving me standing in the sudden quiet of my room with my heart racing and a desperate need to see her smile.
I move to the window, needing air, needing to think. The crown pulses softly on my nightstand. Outside, the arena is already preparing for tonight’s festivities. Lights being strung through the observatory gardens, platforms being assembled for musicians, hundreds of masks being distributed to delegates who will dance and scheme and plot under cover of celebration.
And somewhere in that crowd will be Lord Lucien, watching from the shadows.
Somewhere will be Commander Kaelix, the last House leader I need to win over.
Somewhere will be the Cardinals, desperate and dangerous.
Yet through it all, Ren will be shadowing me, protecting me, risking everything for reasons she hasn’t quite named.
I turn away from the window and face the wardrobe where Astrid left several gowns laid out. Time to become someone who belongs at a ball. Someone who can navigate politics and masks and hidden intentions.
A cheerful voice rings through the half-open door before I can move.
“Darling, are you decent? We have a queen to create.”
The Venus leader glides in followed by what appears to be half a fashion house – stylists, seamstresses, jewelers, all carrying garments and accessories that probably cost more than most people see in a lifetime.
“Time for your transformation,” Isolde announces. “Tonight, you need to look like the future Solar Sovereign. Someone worth following.”
As the styling team begins their work, I find myself thinking about the conversation with Ren. About Lord Lucien’s true motivations, about the risks of trusting someone whose agenda remains mysterious.
But underneath those concerns is a growing sense of possibility. The alliances forming around me, the support I never expected, the feeling that maybe I’m becoming someone worthy of the trust these people are placing in me.
“Hold still, love,” one of the stylists says as she works on my hair. “We’re creating something special.”
The transformation takes hours. I watch as they work, turning me into someone I barely recognize. For the first time in weeks, the withdrawal symptoms fade to the background. The constant hunger beneath my skin quiets as I focus on the stylists’ careful work, their gentle chatter about technique and colour theory providing a welcome distraction.
The main hair stylist – a Venus woman with impossibly steady hands – weaves golden threads through intricate braids that spiral up from the nape of my neck.
“The design is ancient,” she explains. “Worn by solar priestesses inthe old kingdom. But we’re adapting it – see how these smaller braids frame your face? They soften the imperial look; make you seem approachable.”
Another stylist works on my makeup. “Golden bronze on the lids,” she murmurs, applying shimmer that catches the light. “To bring out the green in your eyes and compliment the dress. And just a touch of gold at the inner corners.”
The dress itself is a marvel. Layer upon layer of silk in shades ranging from pale champagne to deep burnished gold, each piece cut and draped to create the illusion of sunlight. The bodice fits perfectly, supportive and regal, while the skirt flows in waves that catch light with every movement.
“The fabric was woven on Venus,” Isolde explains, running her fingers along the hem. “Each thread contains microscopic light-conducting fibres. You’ll literally glow under the ballroom lighting.”
“How did you get it here so quickly?”
“Darling, I never travel off-world without atleastseven spare ballgowns.”
A jeweller steps forward with a delicate tiara. Golden leaves and solar rays worked in precious metal, designed to nestle among my braids.
“No,” I say. “It’s too much.”
“Trust me, Cyra,” Isolde says. “Tonight, too much is exactly what we need.”
Finally, the styling team steps back.
“There,” Isolde says. “Perfect.”
I stand and move to the full-length mirror, and for a long moment, I just stare.
The woman reflected back at me is striking – powerful, radiant, every inch a solar queen.
But she isn’t me.
