The white garden stretches out in perfect, unnatural stillness. Pale flowers bloom in flawless rows, their petals untouched by wind or time. The air itself feels restrained, as if even the breeze knows better than to disturb this place. Several men kneel along the stone path in absolute silence, heads bowed so low their faces are hidden. They do not breathe loudly. They do not shift. They exist only as quiet proof of her ownership.

At the center of it all sits a young woman with long, silken white hair that cascades over one shoulder. Her golden eyes are sharp and cold, like polished coins left in the sun. She wears an elegant white dress that looks as if it has never once been touched by dirt or imperfection. Everything about her posture radiates effortless superiority.

Then she notices you.

The change is subtle at first—a slight tilt of her head, the slow narrowing of her eyes. Recognition settles over her features, followed by something colder. Disgust. Irritation. The quiet fury of someone whose peace has been interrupted by a particularly persistent pest.