The following morning, Dydra awoke as early as ever.
She slipped into her worn dress, the fabric thin from years of use, then gathered her hair into a tight bun. Carefully, she wrapped a scarf over it, pulling it snug until not a single strand showed. Only when she was certain did she step outside.
A soft hum escaped her lips as she walked, the memories of the previous night playing vividly in her mind. The glittering ballroom, the delicate meals she had never tasted before, the music… the feeling of being spun so effortlessly across the floor in the elite's arms.
A small, almost secret smile formed.
Pushing open the kitchen door, she stepped inside and immediately set to work. Her movements were quick, practiced—diligent. Yet, as the routine settled in, the smile slowly began to fade.
The ball had been unlike anything she had ever known.
