Damiano had his people deliver a dress to my room.

It was a dark green silk gown that fit perfectly, though it felt like a heavy armor.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the pale woman looking back.

When we arrived, the glass pavilion was a dome of light against the dark night sky.

Rain pelted the glass panels above us, creating a steady, rhythmic hum that was drowned out by the crowd.

Inside, hundreds of people in tuxedos and silk dresses walked among towering metal sculptures.

The chatter was loud, punctuated by the clinking of crystal champagne flutes and the scrape of leather shoes on marble.

Damiano walked beside me, his arm offered to me with formal grace.

His hand was steady, but I could feel the coiled tension in his frame through his wool suit.

We passed a series of large, abstract oil paintings in deep blues and blood reds.

“Smile, Arya,” Damiano whispered, his lips barely moving as he nodded to a passing couple.

“We are here to show we have already won.”