The moment the doors fully opened, a gust of cold wind swept through the ballroom.
The chandeliers flickered—just slightly—as if the very air recognized the presence of its true ruler.
And then, she appeared.
Anastasia Raventhorn Vasiliev.
The girl who had been born above the world.
The girl who had been crowned before she even took her first breath.
The girl who was now taking her rightful place on the throne.
She stood at the top of the golden staircase, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of the chandelier lights.
And the world—shook.
She was not just a vision of beauty.
She was an entity.
The empress the world never deserved.
Her gown was a masterpiece—a creation worth more than the economies of entire nations.
Midnight black, shimmering with a thousand tiny diamonds, it clung to her form in the most lethal, elegant way. A slit ran high up her leg, exposing skin so flawless it seemed carved from the purest ice.
And on her head—
Rested a crown.
A true crown.
Not a tiara, not an ornament—but a statement.
It was crafted from black gold, encrusted with emeralds and sapphires, each gem glistening like fallen stars.
It was not delicate.
It was not meant for a princess.
It was heavy. Commanding. Absolute.
Because it was the crown of a ruler.
And she wore it like she was born with it.
Her golden-blonde hair cascaded down her back in effortless waves, strands woven with the subtlest hints of blue and silver, reflecting the chandelier lights like molten sunlight and starlight intertwined.
And then—
She moved.
Descending the grand staircase like a goddess walking among mortals.
And no one could breathe.
She did not smile.
She did not acknowledge the guests.
She did not care about the cameras broadcasting her every move to over six billion people.
Because to her—they were irrelevant.
They were beneath her.
this moment, they realized—
They had been worshipping the wrong god.
She was the untouchable.
She was the ruler.