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Heels click unevenly on polished floors and behind her, a team of brightly skinned creatures urge her into an awkward trot. They were late—approximately 4 minutes and 27 seconds to be exact—according to Baldur, a rather large man who looked as if he had been left out in amidst a blizzard for too long, who breathlessly muttered the time passing beneath every second breath he took. It had started to irk her, eyebrows drawing deeper in annoyance and hands thrusting deeper in pockets. The Prep team had come across a hiccup or rather that hiccup was Cassia Mitchells quick-tempered disposition, which had thrown their whole plan out of order. What had been prepared originally—a short cocktail dress woven with marbled ivy dubbed 'a play on the statue theme'—was turned down immediately with snarled lips.
Cassia Mitchells knows Jonah Alnighey had designed it on purpose and drawing him close by the collar she had demanded he find something else. And he had, despite it being still too short for her liking it, at least, was marginally better than the intended dress.
As they rounded the corner a hush fell over 23 tributes. Whether in awe or out of intimidation air caught in throats and bodies froze over.
She was dressed in the night; from breast to knee she was void, a dark velvet casting the illusion of pale porcelain skin. The dress held together by thin straps cut dangerously low at her back and drew tightly above her waistline. Sheer obscure stockings met pitch heels at the ankle and her dark hair; pulled loosely back into a low gathering was crowned with a woven circlet of the original patterned vine.
Cassia Mitchells looked ethereal, like a god, like an angel of death and because of that, it was as if they were in the presence of divinity. A divinity to which some couldn't handle and one, perhaps, she didn't deserve. Like that of Nero Richmond who turned immediately to face the other way, a stony expression hardening on his features. Others watched, rubbernecked and unblinking as she approached.
She knew eyes drawn first to her face would glide down her body and come to rest on her faults. So as they came to a stop she hardened her features into an unreadable mask. She wouldn't let their gaze get to her. She must be calm and cool. She must be sweet and delicate. Tonight she played the damsel and tomorrow the Statue. Nobody would purge her of her glory because it was hers. Not her father. Not his god. Not apprehension or their eyes and most definitely not Nero.
Brown orbs met blue for a fraction of a second, long enough to take in his appearance and sentiments. Garbed in dark cloth, if she was the angel he was the hellhound. From head to toe, he was covered in the same pitch as her dress, hood up and eyes shaded, his stance said words he dared speak. The boy leaned against the wall nonchalantly observing her with narrowed eyes. Nero was livid; Cassia could sense it because he was like smoke. It choked up a room and made the weak suffocate. Cassia Mitchells was not weak and so she would gulp it down by the lungful knowing full well she had caused it.
