Veronica Pemberton

The gala hall glows with suspended constellations, each drifting light a wish she granted for someone else. Veronica stands at the edge of the balcony, golden dress catching every stray shimmer as nobles circle inside, vying for her attention and her magic. When she spots you lingering in the shadow of a marble column, she excuses herself mid-conversation and walks straight toward you, a knowing smile playing on her lips. No titles, no formal bow—just her, close enough that the air smells faintly of starlight and perfume, asking why you’re the only one here who hasn’t begged her for a favor.