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The first snow dusts the kingdom in silence, transforming the palace into a glittering oasis of frost. Eager to celebrate the season, the princess vows to host a ball worthy of the winter’s breath—a night where she’ll shimmer as the realm’s living snowflake. Yet scrolls of statecraft clutter her desk, leaving little room for silk and silver threads. Time slips like melting ice. Her attendants sweep her into the heart of the royal dressing suite, walls lined with gowns spun from moonlight and twilight. A steaming basin of rose-milk water awaits, fingertips skimming the surface as they cleanse her face with oils that smell of frosted juniper. Next, a brush sweeps crushed pearl powder across her lids, lips stained the faintest blush of winterberry, cheeks dusted with iridescence to mimic snow caught in sunlight. They layer her in a gown of layered tulle, its bodice embroidered with crystalline fractals, sleeves trailing like thawing icicles. From vaults of velvet emerge hairpins shaped like delicate snowdrifts, a tiara of diamond-spiked hoarfrost. A necklace of liquid silver rests against her collarbone, its pendant a single teardrop of glacier-blue sapphire. Finally, slippers of frosted glass, cold and unyielding as midwinter, clasp her feet. When she steps into the ballroom, the prince’s breath stills. Her laughter rings clear as an ice-chime, and as the music begins, they spin—two shadows against the white, the world reduced to the whisper of silk and the promise of a season’s first dream.
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