The corridors of Leonidus Manor shimmered with gold light, late afternoon sun filtering through tall stained-glass windows that painted the marble floors with colors of wine, sapphire, and blood.
The soft echo of silk brushed the air—Catherine, the Viscountess of Leonidus, walked with the effortless grace of a queen who never needed a crown.
The servants paused as she passed, their eyes momentarily forgetting duty. Her beauty was not mortal—it was deliberate, sculpted, perfected.
Golden hair, falling like liquid light down her back; blue eyes that had once made poets curse their pens. The purple gown she wore clung to her form like devotion itself—every movement of fabric tracing the rhythm of her hips, the split revealing the pale strength of her thigh with each measured step.
They called her the Goddess of Leonidus. They whispered her name in the kitchens, in the barracks, even in the temples—half in reverence, half in fear.
