I woke up with something hitting my face.

  Not hard.

  Not painful.

  Paper.

  —Wake uuuup, goddeeeesses! —a voice sang, far too alive for the hour it had to be.

  I cracked one eye open.

  Pamphlets.

  So many.

  Glossy. Colorful. Women impossibly perfect staring back at me from covers promising influence, luxury, and soft power in fonts far too elegant for my mood.

  —Velka… —I muttered, still half asleep.

  —Velka Velkcrux —she corrected proudly—, your official alarm clock and spiritual guide to New Althameria.

  Neyra was the next to react. She shot upright in her bed, catching one of the papers before it smacked her in the face.

  —What is this? —she growled.

  —Our future —Velka replied, already sitting on the edge of my bed like a war hadn’t ended less than twenty-four hours ago—. Or at least the branding of our future.

  Caelia opened her eyes slowly from her bunk.

  —Time?

  —Too early to exist —Neyra said.

  —Too late to ignore this —Velka shot back, waving another pamphlet.

  I sat up, rubbing my face. My body still felt heavy, exhausted, like the war hadn’t gotten the memo that it was technically over.

  —Velka… —I said—. Tell me you’re not planning something.

  —I never plan —she replied with a dangerous smile—. I improvise with privileged information.

  She hopped to the center of the room and spread the pamphlets across the floor like she was assembling a ritual.

  —New Althameria —she announced—. The summit. The icons. The six most influential women on the continent. Business magnates, strategists, sex symbols, architects of modern soft power.

  She pointed at one with particular enthusiasm.

  —Maribel —she said—. I’ve been listening to her since I was sixteen. If I die tomorrow, I want it on record that I almost negotiated world peace in the same room as her.

  Neyra closed her eyes.

  —They’re public figures, not singers.

  —Exactly —Velka nodded—. That’s why it’s worse.

  Caelia sat up fully now, awake.

  —Velka, we’re not going as tourists.

  —I know! —she laughed—. It’s a joke. Humor. A coping mechanism. Do you honestly think my brain works without sarcasm after yesterday?

  I looked at her for a second longer.

  Behind the shine, the chaos, the noise… she was doing what she always did.

  Pushing us forward.

  —We leave today —Caelia said, checking her communicator.

  Velka raised both hands.

  —See? Immediate travel. High-risk diplomacy. Women who rule nations without thrones. If I don’t joke about it, I fall apart.

  Silence fell for just a second.

  Long enough for all of us to understand the same thing.

  New Althameria was no longer a secondary mission.

  It was the next battlefield.

  And this time… it wouldn’t involve armor.

  A while later, fully dressed, we crossed the academy in silence. There were no long goodbyes. No speeches. Just footsteps that sounded different now that we knew Seravenn was wounded.

  The transport took us to the main hangar.

  And there, New Althameria took its first bite.

  A massive private jet, gleaming white, adorned with golden filigree and enameled crests that reflected the runway lights like mirrors. Around it, ground staff in immaculate silk uniforms, smiles measured, perfect… too perfect.

  —Well —Velka muttered—. Captain, do they charge us if I steal a gold cushion?

  Caelia didn’t even look at her. She was speaking with a man in a suit who bowed so deeply it looked like his spine might snap, as if every word were an offering.

  Neyra stayed half a step behind me. I could feel her attention split in two: the security perimeter and every centimeter of that polished fuselage.

  I boarded first.

  The interior was worse.

  Carpets soft as untouched snow, seats wide as thrones, pale linen curtains that looked like they had never known dust. There were no visible screws. No rough edges. Everything was designed to make you forget you were flying in a machine… or that you were coming from a war.

  Small monitors lit up as we walked.

  —Welcome to New Althameria, honor of Seravenn —a warm, perfectly modulated artificial voice whispered—. Estimated flight time: eighteen hours. Relax. Enjoy the journey.

  Velka brushed my elbow, quietly:

  —Lyss… I promise not to puke on the royal carpet.

  —Well. Almost promise.

  I laughed. Barely. Just enough for Caelia to look up and make sure it was real.

  We took our seats.

  Through the window, Seravenn grew smaller. More distant. As if someone were closing a door without making a sound.

  Inside, New Althameria wrapped us in velvet, gold, and white smiles. In bubbles of luxury that didn’t bleed. In a calm too perfectly lit.

  I walked down the central aisle feeling like every step made me more visible.

  Too clean.

  Too far from home.

  The roar of Seravenn faded behind us.

  The journey began.

  And with it, the spectacle.

  Less than half an hour had passed since we were allowed to leave our seats when a cream-uniformed attendant intercepted us in the jet’s main corridor.

  —Goddesses of Seravenn —she said, her voice trembling just slightly—. Angelica Brown is waiting for you in the tailoring suite. Immediately.

  Velka clicked her tongue.

  —Tailoring on a plane? What’s next, a marble spa and ritual sacrifices?

  No one laughed.

  Not even her.

  The tailoring room looked like a surgical theater disguised as a boutique: faceless mannequins aligned like patients, bolts of fabric stacked in obsessive columns, white linen screens hiding needles, pins, and steel rulers vibrating with the hum of the aircraft.

  And at the center…

  Angelica Brown.

  Tall. Slender. Chestnut hair pulled into a bun so perfect it looked museum-made. White lace gloves. A measuring tape hanging from her fingers like a rosary.

  At her side, a pale assistant held an active tablet.

  —Ah… —Angelica murmured when she saw us, her smile slow and sharp—. Seravenn in the flesh. I expected more smoke and blood. But look at you… such obedient bodies for silk.

  She didn’t ask for permission.

  She went straight to Caelia.

  —Height: one seventy-five —she tapped the tape from heel to crown—. Shoulders: forty-two. Bust: cup A, seventy-eight centimeters.

  The tape brushed Caelia’s chest through the fabric as if it were skin.

  —Narrow hips. Contained waist. Commander’s posture… —her lips curved— … exquisite physical discipline. Note: needs rigid structure. No unnecessary volume.

  —Diplomatic profile: high —the assistant murmured while typing—. Provocation risk: low.

  Caelia didn’t blink. Being hit would have felt less invasive.

  Angelica moved to Neyra.

  She tilted her head, as if examining a rare gem.

  —One sixty. Waist sixty-one. Bust: cup A. So small… almost fragile —the tape slid along her side, brushing the yellow streak of her hair—. And yet, obsessive tension in the muscle tone. Fascinating. Note: visual innocence with hidden edge. That sells.

  —Media impact: high —the assistant said—. Vulnerability profile. Eroticization likely.

  Neyra pressed her lips together.

  Velka stepped forward on her own.

  —Ready for the best body you’ll see today, Angelica?

  Angelica measured her without answering.

  —One sixty-nine. Bust: cup C, nearly D. Wide hips… cowboy style —she said it with elegant mockery—. Firm glutes. Volatile energy. Needs fluid fabrics so the body moves without losing focus. Note: asymmetry, openings, motion. A trap wrapped in laughter.

  —Risk of over-sexualization: extreme —the assistant murmured.

  Velka winked.

  I was last.

  Angelica’s eyes traveled up my body slowly before she touched me.

  —One sixty-nine —she purred—. Strong shoulders. Bust: cup C to D… —the tape touched my chest, cold—. Firm waist. Worked abdomen. Proportioned hips. Hourglass form.

  The tape traced my side, then withdrew as if it burned.

  —Contained posture. Latent aggression. Note: needs something that holds the poison without dulling it. A crowned… venom.

  —Maximum international exposure —the assistant read—. Fetishization risk: high.

  Angelica smiled.

  —Perfect.

  They were dressing us.

  Not to cover us.

  To sell us.

  When Angelica finished taking our measurements, she removed her gloves with a slow, deliberate motion, as if she had just operated on bodies rather than taken sizes. She let them fall onto the table and snapped her fingers.

  Four holographic panels unfolded in the air.

  They were not simple sketches.

  They were… versions of us.

  —These —she said, without raising her voice— will be your skin in Aurelis.

  Velka was the first to react.

  —Oh.

  —…Oh.

  Something tightened in my stomach.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The first design turned toward me.

  Lyss’s dress.

  A black-and-red corset, rigid, almost architectural, wrapping the torso as if it meant to claim it. The neckline lifted and held the chest in place, supported by seams that looked less like tailoring and more like cages. The skirt fell in layers of translucent red-and-black gauze, revealing the legs when moving, as if every step were a veiled threat.

  It was…

  power made into clothing.

  —That one —Angelica murmured— doesn’t disguise your aggression. It frames it.

  I couldn’t answer.

  The image seemed to stare back at me.

  The second panel rotated toward Velka.

  A black gown shot through with deep red sheen, clinging like a second skin, floor-length with a brutal slit up the leg. The V-shaped neckline and thin straps were not delicate—they were provocations. The fabric hugged every curve, every muscle, every intention.

  —Is that me? —Velka whistled, tilting her head.

  —Wow… I didn’t know I looked that dangerous.

  —You are —Angelica replied flatly—. Now you’ll look it.

  Velka laughed, but there was tension in it.

  The third panel revealed Caelia’s dress.

  White.

  Ceremonial.

  Crossed at the front, fluid, with a long slit that exposed her legs as she walked… and a dark red belt cutting through the purity of the fabric at the waist.

  It was the kind of garment that screamed sacred… while inviting the gaze.

  —Controlled purity —Angelica commented.

  —A commander wrapped in virtue.

  Caelia held the image with her eyes, jaw tight, as if she meant to pierce it.

  —I am not a symbol —she said.

  —In Aurelis, you will be —Angelica answered—. That is not optional.

  The final panel turned toward Neyra.

  A black dress embroidered in gold, high-necked, asymmetrical: short in the front, long in the back with a translucent train. Her legs were exposed. Her torso, tightly covered, looked like a luxury breastplate.

  Authority.

  Elegance.

  Something that said look at me… without asking permission.

  —Contained predator —Angelica murmured—.

  —Perfect for someone who watches before striking.

  Neyra said nothing. She only tightened her fingers.

  Angelica surveyed the four figures floating in the air, satisfied.

  —You will not wear them now. —She smiled—. I want New Althameria to see you first as you come from Seravenn: stained, exhausted, real.

  —Then… when Aurelis demands its goddesses… my work will be the only thing covering you.

  Velka swallowed.

  Caelia squared her shoulders.

  I felt the virtual corset of my dress tighten around my chest… even without touching me.

  —Go now —Angelica said, as if she had already stripped us enough—.

  —Rest.

  —Perfection does not wait.

  The descent began before the plane ever touched the ground.

  From the window, Aurelis started to take shape like a luminous wound along the coast: three urban cores woven together by suspended bridges, crystal towers catching the dawn in shades of pearl and gold, and below them the sea—calm, dark, eternal—serving as a mirror for a city that never slept. Floating screens ignited even before landing, as if the tripolis had known the exact moment to look up at the sky.

  No one spoke.

  The jet touched down with an insulting smoothness. No jolt. No friction. As if Aurelis simply did not allow mistakes.

  When the hatch opened, the air hit us first: salt from the sea mixed with synthetic perfume, static electricity, and something else… restrained expectation. The silence wasn’t real. It was trained.

  I stepped down first.

  The metal of the stairway vibrated beneath my uniform boots. Behind me, I felt the others fall into line without a single order being given. Caelia matched her pace to mine; Neyra stayed half a step back, scanning routes, heights, densities; Velka… Velka took a deep breath, like someone bracing herself for a stage she never asked for.

  The flashes exploded the moment my foot touched the tarmac.

  Drones, cameras, electronic banners unfolding in layers: Shadows of the Crown, Sisterhood, Welcome. The name of Seravenn gleamed in gentle, polished typography—far too clean for a border shaped by war.

  And then I saw her.

  Mirabelle Corazón Sterling.

  She stood at the foot of the stairway as if she had always belonged to that exact spot. Ash-blond hair pulled into a low ponytail, every strand in place despite the coastal wind. Her outfit—futuristic, pearlescent, bare-shouldered—didn’t look like clothing so much as set design built around her. A small jewel at her ear caught the light as she turned her head; something in her smile adjusted half a second too late, as if she had been waiting for a signal I couldn’t see.

  Her pearl-gray eyes went to the cameras first.

  Then to us.

  —Aurelis and all of New Althameria extend their most glorious welcome —she sang, her voice made to travel across screens—. It is an honor to receive the protectors of Seravenn… the living goddesses of the iron frontier.

  The crowd responded as a single organism. Not with screams, but with light. Screens shifting angles. Drones lowering half a meter. The artificial sky igniting brief, controlled, beautiful fireworks.

  Velka murmured behind me, barely audible:

  —Well… at least they didn’t throw explosive flowers.

  Caelia didn’t react. Her posture was immaculate, ceremonial, but I felt the precise tension in her shoulders: she was ready for negotiation… or rupture. Neyra tightened her jaw; her eyes weren’t on Mirabelle, but on the geometry of the space.

  Mirabelle inclined her head with a humility so perfect it hurt.

  —Come with me —she continued—. The Pendleton awaits you. You will rest… and when night falls, all of Aurelis will see that no jewel eclipses yours.

  I stepped forward once more.

  Let them see the leader first.

  Not as a spectacle.

  As a warning.

  The limousine moved without a single jolt, as if Aurelis were parting for us on its own.

  Through the polarized glass, the city began to take shape: an endless coastline of white towers, bridges of glass suspended over the sea, wide avenues where the lights never flickered. Everything gleamed with a perfection so absolute it felt unnatural.

  There was no trash.

  No visible cracks.

  No improvisation.

  There were people.

  Too many.

  But they moved with a strange cadence, almost choreographed. They applauded as we passed. Raised their screens. Smiled. And once the limousine left them behind… they returned to their exact rhythm, as if someone had pressed play again.

  Velka was the first to speak.

  —Is it always this… —she searched for the word, pressing her forehead to the glass— immaculately unsettling?

  Mirabelle sat across from us, back straight, gloved hands resting on her knees. She smiled softly, without a trace of offense.

  —Aurelis learned long ago that spontaneity is a luxury —she replied—. Here, people prefer to feel safe… even inside a script.

  Caelia never took her eyes off the city, memorizing routes, intersections, elevated points.

  —Too many cleared streets —she said—. This isn’t a normal welcome.

  —Of course not —Mirabelle answered—. It’s an emotional one.

  The city adjusts itself to what it needs you to feel.

  Neyra frowned.

  —Then this isn’t for us.

  Mirabelle tilted her head slightly.

  —It never is. It’s for those watching you.

  A massive screen ignited as we passed beneath a bridge. For just a few seconds, a soft melody filled the interior of the vehicle. A female voice, polished to perfection.

  Velka sighed.

  —They don’t even let us travel without your soundtrack, huh?

  Mirabelle smiled again, this time with something more tired in her eyes.

  —Here, nothing sounds by accident.

  That was when I spoke.

  —What do they really expect from us? —I asked—. Beyond existing.

  Mirabelle met my gaze. Up close, her pearl-gray eyes weren’t na?ve. They were precise. Watchful.

  —They expect you to walk without breaking the atmosphere —she said—. To observe. To react just enough.

  She leaned forward slightly.

  —There will be requests —she added—. Some symbolic. Others… not so much.

  What matters is that no one perceives them as impositions.

  The limousine slowed.

  In the distance, the Pendleton began to rise against the sea like a cathedral of marble and glass, devouring reflections, cameras, and attention.

  Mirabelle composed herself instantly—perfect again.

  —They won’t ask you to lie —she said, just before the vehicle came to a stop—.

  Only to choose which truth to show.

  The door began to open.

  The light reached us.

  And with it, the performance was about to begin.

  The Pendleton did not look like a hotel.

  It was a cathedral of marble and glass, built to convince the world that perfection could be inhabited. A white colossus, impossible to take in at once, where every surface reflected light with an almost unreal cleanliness. It did not impose itself through sheer size, but through coherence: nothing was out of place, nothing felt improvised.

  The limousine came to a stop beneath a portico so polished that the camera flashes rebounded like small private suns. When the doors opened, sound struck first—contained applause, drones humming in precise patterns, voices chanting names with an unsettling synchronicity.

  We stepped out one by one.

  Mirabelle Corazón Sterling moved slightly ahead of us, flawless even in motion. She adjusted a strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear with a gesture practiced into naturalness. The jewel near her ear caught the light for an instant—nothing more—before going dark again.

  —Remember… enjoy yourselves —she said, her voice soft, rounded, designed to envelop.

  —At eight, the makeup artists and hair stylists will arrive. At nine, Angelica Brown will deliver your final dresses. At precisely ten, transportation will pick you up here.

  She smiled. Not a false smile—one carefully measured.

  —May Aurelis bless your best version.

  Velka raised an eyebrow, amused even there.

  —My best version? —she said—. Oh, darling… I only have one version. The perfect one.

  Mirabelle did not reply. She merely inclined her head with impeccable grace and returned to the limousine. The door closed, the flashes followed her, and within seconds she was gone. All that remained was the echo of her presence, like a song that ends too quickly.

  We walked the short distance to the lobby.

  The automatic doors opened without a sound. The floor was polished marble, so reflective it mirrored our silhouettes with uncomfortable fidelity. White columns threaded with veins of gold supported a ceiling so high the light never cast a harsh shadow.

  Every member of the staff stopped at the same time.

  It wasn’t an order. It was choreography.

  Heads inclined, hands folded, smiles measured. No one spoke. No one stepped closer than necessary.

  Caelia kept her gaze forward, breathing with military control.

  Neyra scanned the space, counting visible cameras—and cataloguing the invisible ones.

  Velka turned slowly in place, fascinated, lifting her wrist to watch how the light slid across her skin.

  We stopped at the reception desk.

  The woman behind it wore immaculate black silk. She did not raise her voice.

  —Goddesses of Seravenn. Welcome to your suite: the Centurion, fiftieth floor. —Her tone never rose—. May your rest be worthy of your glory.

  Velka let out a soft whistle.

  —Fiftieth floor… all that’s missing is the ceiling opening so we can see the stars.

  —If it opens, we freeze to death —Neyra muttered—. Shut up.

  Two attendants appeared without being summoned. They took our luggage with precise, almost silent movements.

  Inside the elevator, Velka jumped to press the button for fifty.

  Nothing happened.

  The panel emitted an indifferent chime. One of the attendants gestured subtly toward the card. Velka snatched it from my hand without asking and slid it through the scanner.

  The number fifty lit up instantly, gleaming like a jewel.

  —See? —Velka said, puffing out her chest as we began to rise—.

  —This city knows better than to deny an Aurel.

  —Yes, Velka —Neyra replied with a dry laugh—.

  —The entire capital is called Aurelis just for you. Obviously.

  I said nothing.

  I watched the lobby shrink beneath our feet, the white city arranging itself into perfect layers. I didn’t feel fear. I didn’t feel threatened.

  Only the strange sensation of having crossed an invisible border—

  —and of not yet knowing what rules governed the other side.

  When the doors opened, the Centurion Suite received us as if we had just crossed the threshold of a dream far too expensive to be honest.

  The hallway was short.

  Only four doors on the entire floor.

  And a silence so polished that even our boots seemed to ask permission to exist.

  Velka slid the card into the door marked with the number 2 and pushed it open with theatrical flair, like someone storming a private sanctuary.

  The interior breeze hit us immediately.

  Cool.

  Perfumed.

  Artificially perfect.

  And then we saw it.

  A living space as large as the house we occupied in Eiswacht… maybe larger.

  The ceiling rose in impossible angles, holding a crystal chandelier that looked like a fragment of sky captured by force.

  To the left, a kitchen of polished black marble, not a single trace of use.

  Ahead, white sofas so immaculate they made sitting feel like a crime.

  A projection table that responded to voice, waiting for orders like a domesticated animal.

  A dining table for twelve.

  There were four of us.

  The minibar… an indecent offering: bottles aligned like crystal soldiers, liquors that smelled of promises and ruin at the same time.

  Beyond that, the space opened into a hexagonal layout:

  four enormous beds, separated by panels of soft light, as if even sleep were meant to be beautiful.

  Three full bathrooms.

  A sunken jacuzzi beside a massive window overlooking Aurelis, the city spreading below like an ocean of neon, devouring itself in endless reflections.

  Velka ran inside, spinning over the thick carpet like a child at a festival.

  —THIS! —she shouted—. THIS should be my bed every damn night!

  —Aurelis! Aurel! Of course they built it for me!

  Neyra moved more slowly. She brushed her hand along the marble wall as if trying to listen to it.

  —This structure is an insult to physics —she murmured.

  —It’s beautiful. And that makes it suspicious.

  Caelia and I lingered in the doorway a second longer.

  She turned her head slowly, taking in every corner, every excess.

  —Not even our golden corridors have this much… —she whispered—.

  —…waste.

  I swallowed.

  The air here tasted different.

  Softer.

  More expensive.

  And, for some reason, more чужд—

  more alien.

  —What did we get ourselves into…? —I murmured.

  Velka had already thrown herself onto one of the beds, boots and all, laughing as if she had conquered the entire continent.

  The suite didn’t respond.

  It just kept shining.

  The attendants arrived only seconds later. They placed our luggage in perfect alignment beside the door, performed a synchronized bow, and vanished with the efficiency of well-trained ghosts.

  The silence returned.

  It wasn’t empty silence—it was the kind that seemed to be waiting.

  Four pairs of eyes met. No one spoke. There was no need to.

  Aurelis had swallowed us whole.

  And this room was only the appetizer.

  Inside the Centurion Suite, calm was a lie dressed in marble.

  Velka had already found the minibar, assessing the bottles as if they were potential weapons. Neyra studied the projection panel embedded in the wall, her fingers hovering just centimeters from the surface, never touching it. Caelia sat at the kitchen bar, elbows braced, reviewing the documents as though reading a sentence not yet assigned a date.

  I leaned against the back of an armchair. The upholstery yielded slightly beneath my fingers. Too soft. Too perfect.

  The document we had received before takeoff lay open on the low table. Warm ceiling light bathed it without casting shadows. Every line gleamed with a cleanliness that made you want to tear the paper apart.

  “Supplementary obligations:

  The representatives of Seravenn agree, as a gesture of goodwill, to participate in diplomatic, cultural, media, and propagandistic projection activities… without limitation of duration, frequency, or nature of the event…”

  Velka read aloud, exaggerating every word, stretching the syllables like chewing gum:

  —“Diplomatic and media projection…” —she looked up, grinning—. Oh, gods of Seravenn. They’ve turned us into influencers. Congratulations, Captain—you’ve got your own perfume campaign now.

  No one replied immediately.

  Caelia closed her eyes for a second. Just one. Then she tapped the document lightly with her finger, marking a specific line.

  —This is what the Queen signed. —Her voice was steady, but tight—. We’re not here just to talk alliances. We’re the face. The lure. The perfect distraction while Orion D’Helios does whatever he wants and everyone watches us instead.

  Neyra tilted her head, thoughtful. A thin, sharp smile crossed her face.

  —I don’t see the problem. We always hide behind blades, ranks, and masks. Maybe it was time they saw exactly what we are… and decided whether they can sleep peacefully afterward.

  Velka dropped backward onto the plush carpet, arms spread wide, laughing.

  —Just imagine it! Lyss on the cover of Aurelis Vogue. —She adopted a solemn tone—. “The goddesses of Seravenn reveal their skincare secrets: pure rage, four hours of sleep, and accumulated trauma.”

  She laughed. Neyra snorted—almost a laugh.

  Caelia and I didn’t.

  My breath felt trapped beneath my tongue, as if the air weighed more inside this room.

  —I… —I began.

  Velka lifted her head at once, alert.

  I lowered my voice, even knowing it was pointless. The barely audible hum of the environmental system seemed to listen with us.

  —When I was a temporary member of Lumina Umbrae… I wore a mask. Always. I never had to… show myself. I never had to be… —I stopped. The word refused to come. My throat burned.

  Caelia spoke for me, without looking.

  —Exposure means surrendering the last barrier.

  Velka rolled onto her side. Her expression was no longer mocking, but strangely gentle. She crawled over, took my hand, and theatrically kissed the back of it.

  —Captain… look at it this way. They take off your mask—sure—but they swallow the version you give them. Not one crack more. Not one less.

  Neyra stepped closer to the table, resting her knuckles against its edge.

  —And if you don’t like the way they stare… you can always rip out their throats later. —She shrugged—. It’d go viral.

  Caelia let out a huff that almost became a laugh.

  I breathed. Just a little easier.

  Then the projection panel chimed softly. Not intrusive. Almost kind. White letters appeared, floating with slow, elegant animation:

  “Dear guests:

  Your styling team will arrive at 20:00 hours.

  Please remain in the Centurion Suite.”

  Velka jumped to her feet and clapped.

  —Time to become the most beautiful nightmare in all of New Althameria!

  Caelia stood, smoothing the skirt of her gala uniform with an automatic gesture.

  Neyra sighed, murmuring almost to herself:

  —Let the show begin.

  I looked at the reflection in the window: four silhouettes outlined against a city glowing like an altar.

  And I thought, deep within me:

  Take my mask away…

  but never my edge.