As dusk settled over the lands of the underworld, painting the skies in shades of bruised violet and burning crimson, a maid entered Aurora’s chambers bearing a small carved box of polished ebony. Within lay a gown unlike any she had worn before: soft as mist, woven from fabrics that seemed to drink the light, rich and regal, stitched all over with fine embroidery the colour of polished obsidian, its sleeves sheer and delicate, slipping like smoke over her arms and shoulders.

She dressed herself slowly, her fingers moving with hesitation, her heart fluttering with equal parts wonder and unease—for she did not yet know what this night held, only that everything in her life had shifted, and would never be as it was.