Celine stared at the dress laid out across her bed. Deep forest green, edged with fine silver stitching, the fabric shimmered softly in the fading light. It looked expensive—too elegant for her, too intentional. The kind of dress that made a statement before a single word was spoken.
It hadn’t been worn. Not yet. The bodice held its shape like it was waiting for her to step into it. The skirt fanned out over the covers in perfect folds, not a wrinkle in sight.
Her stomach twisted.
She hadn’t brought anything like this. No gowns, no finery, not even a proper pair of heels. She hadn't needed them. This was supposed to be temporary—quiet. She’d planned to keep her head down, avoid notice, slip out the same way she came in.
The idea of standing next to Leon’s Luna contenders had never felt real enough to prepare for.
But someone had. Someone had chosen this dress. This color. This moment. And now it was here, waiting—like the rest of the world suddenly expected her to step into it and play along.
“You’re just standing there,” Lucy teased from the doorway, arms crossed. “Is it cursed, or are you just in shock that someone left you a dress that isn’t made of burlap?”
“You did this?” Celine asked.
Lucy shrugged. “We all did.”
A lump formed in Celine’s throat. She had spent so long being overlooked, ignored, cast aside. And yet, here—people had noticed. People had thought about her and had cared.
Celine let out a breathless laugh. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “You put it on. That’s all you have to do.”
Before Celine could argue, Lucy grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her behind the dressing screen with surprising force.
The fabric was cool against her skin as she stepped into the dress. The bodice fit snugly—not tight, but secure, like it had been made with her in mind. It hugged her shape in a way that felt intentional, like whoever tailored it had known exactly what they were doing.
Lucy gave a low, approving hum. “Oh, you’re going to kill them tonight.”
Celine stepped out, smoothing her hands down the front of the dress. The fabric shimmered under her touch, but she still felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin.
“Hair next,” Lucy said, already pushing her into a nearby chair.
Celine tensed as fingers started working through her hair, fast and practiced. Lucy wove it into a braid—not flashy, not overdone, but clean and elegant. It felt… strange. Not heavy, not stiff. Just unfamiliar.
“I never really…” Celine started, then trailed off. “I never really did this before.”
Lucy scoffed. “That much is obvious.”
Celine frowned. “I just didn’t see the point. Lilith always—”
“Lilith is not the standard,” Lucy cut in, voice firm. She stepped back, gently lifting Celine’s chin toward the mirror. “Now, look.”
For a moment, Celine didn’t recognize the girl staring back at her. She looked taller somehow. Sharper. The dress caught the light in all the right places, her braid neat and strong down her back. She didn’t look like someone trying to blend in. She looked like someone meant to be seen.
For years, she had convinced herself that she wasn’t meant to be seen. That she didn’t belong in the spotlight, that she didn’t deserve to.
But the girl staring back at her was stunning.
Not in the way Lilith had been, with her golden hair and practiced beauty. Celine’s was something different—softer, quieter, but no less striking.
Her silver-blonde hair framed her face perfectly, her eyes seeming brighter somehow beneath the touch of gold shimmer Lucy had dusted across them. And her lips—gods, she had never seen them painted before. The deep wine-red color made her look bold, made her look like someone who could stand beside Leon and not shrink under the weight of it.
She swallowed hard, fingers grazing over her jaw.
Lucy smirked behind her. “Well?”
Celine shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t look like me.”
Lucy leaned down, pressing her chin onto Celine’s shoulder as she met her gaze in the mirror. “No,” she murmured, “you look like who you were meant to be.”
***
The moment she stepped into the dining hall, all conversation stopped. Dozens of gazes snapped to her—some curious, some surprised, some openly assessing.
And then there was Leon. Seated at the head of the long table, he leaned back in his chair, fingers lazily tapping against his goblet. His dark eyes locked onto hers.
Heat spread across Celine’s skin, sharp and sudden. She tore her gaze from his, only to meet Sasha’s. The other woman sat directly beside Leon, her bloody red gown wrapping around her like armor, her red hair spilling over her shoulders in perfect waves.
If Celine had ever doubted that Sasha considered this a war, the look on her face now confirmed it.
She watched Celine with a slow, assessing gaze. And then, just as deliberately, she shifted closer to Leon, letting her fingers lightly brush against his arm as she reached for her goblet.
A challenge. A reminder. Celine didn’t react. Didn’t falter. She just stepped forward, lifted her chin—and took her seat.