The capital had not burned with such singular, feverish anticipation since the last Dragon Conclave two centuries past—when the skies above the city had filled with winged silhouettes and the ground shook with the thunder of landing beasts.
By the third morning after the black-and-silver invitations were dispatched, the entire metropolis pulsed to one obsessive rhythm: the Women's Grand Gala, hosted by the ancient and unassailable House Draconic in the legendary Crystal Pavilion.
The Pavilion itself was a marvel of imperial excess—rising like a frozen starburst from the heart of the Rose Quarter, its white marble facade veined with rose quartz that caught dawn light and scattered it in blushing prisms across the boulevards.
