The mistress of the auction house shut the massive door behind her, and the noise of endless preparation stilled in an instant, absorbed by layers of soundproofing. Within the study a tranquility held sway, steeped in a thick, intoxicating aroma of new leather, expensive lacquer, and the barely perceptible scent of fresh ink.

She lowered herself slowly into a deep armchair. The velvet upholstery tenderly received her body, which was weary from endless inspections. Resting before her upon the table was a list - a long scroll inscribed in flawless handwriting.

She carelessly kicked off her footwear, massaging her feet. From long walking, they had swollen and ached. Her gaze slid along the items, and every single one of them constituted a small victory.

Wine cellar: Filled to capacity.

Kitchen: A staff of the finest chefs and that very confectioner whose desserts resembled pieces of jewelry - fragile, incredible, and frighteningly expensive.

Repositories: Rare metals, rolls of fabrics, boxes with the Rosenthal seal for jewelry items, rarities, weaponry, etc.

Having verified every item, Azalea stood up and approached the wall situated directly behind her desk. Here, disguised as a massive painting, rested a trick window. From the exterior side, this was a blank wall with an elegant molded cornice above the stage. Yet here, inside, with a single wave of her hand, Azalea could render the glass transparent.

She activated the mechanism. The wall melted away.

Azalea looked out upon the majestic hall, which was gradually filling with interior items. From here, from her refuge, she could witness everything transpiring inside the main hall. And not solely that. At her desire, this massive screen displayed everything that occurred within each of the important premises of her building.

“It is time to prepare the armor,” she spoke in a confident voice.

The screen extinguished at her desire, turning back into an ordinary painting.

The girl walked into the adjacent room, a bedroom, and from there into the wardrobe. Rows of dresses that the world had not yet beheld. Upon the floor lay a heap of blueprints. She picked up one of them.

“Time to create.”

Her eyes blazed with excitement, and her hands literally itched. Of late, on account of a mad workload, she had been unable to create, and today such an opportunity had finally fallen. Inside her skillful hands, cuts of silk crepe of a rich wine shade, matte graphite-black, and burgundy-brown suit fabrics transformed into a shirt, a trouser suit, and an draped cloak.

Content with the result, she set about sifting through the drawers with jewels, attempting to locate that very golden set.

“Precisely! There were suitable loafers somewhere as well!” the girl exclaimed, taking apart boxes with footwear. She mentally scolded herself on account of having created a heap of things that she, most likely, would not even put on. “Found them!”

The ensemble was completely ready. The mannequin, crafted according to her measurements, appeared solemn. Her armor was in place.

A train of wagons drove with a rumble along the pavement leading to the “Crystal Palace.” Onlookers who had previously been lazily discussing everyday troubles observed what was transpiring with curiosity. Among the carriages driving past, they peered with astonishment into coats of arms that no one had seen in the capital for many years.

“Hey, is a fox not the symbol of the House of Rebel?” one guard nudged another.

“Why, truly?! Even they have arrived?” the second stared in surprise at the indicated wagon. “Why, they never depart their lands. How about that!”

Representatives of the most varied noble families hastened to the opening of the majestic building. Merely a month ago, they would not have even paid attention to a strange name that had appeared out of nowhere. Yet a sumptuous reception, gifts with which the Rosenthals showered the metropolitan aristocrats, and fabulous sums circulating around their affairs had executed their work. A whole fence of rumors and gossip was erected around the family, woven from a dense intertwining of truth and fiction.

Lady Azalea Rosenthal looked upon the empty main hall through the concealed window inside her study. It was magnificent and finally furnished - costly furniture, elegant decorations, and a sea of flowers. Upon the walls hung no paintings, nor stood statues: Azalea had intentionally declined this. She had resolved that inside this space, such objects would be worthy of being situated exclusively upon the central pedestal.

“Are you confident that it was not worth commencing the opening of the auction house with bidding? Today so many influential families have gathered here; they would gladly leave a couple of hundred thousand inside such a place, merely to demonstrate to the rest that they can afford it,” said Marcus, whose collar Elena was carefully adjusting.

“Let us compel our guests to starve a bit longer. From this, the food that we shall offer them will be solely sweeter,” she responded with a smile, adjusting the gold cufflinks on her shirt.

Inside the exhibition pavilion, separated from the Great Hall, a small but unbelievably influential crowd had already gathered. Servants in Rosenthal liveries carried around exquisite aperitifs. The head chef had outdone himself: the appetizers appeared like real works of art, causing the guests to desire to sample absolutely every item.

Suddenly the live music stilled. The massive doors opened.

The Rosenthals, who had selected striking black-and-red shades for this evening, entered the hall one after another. Elena, whose shoes clicked loudly upon the polished marble of the floor, was clad in a form-fitting dress of a “mermaid” style with a spellbinding open back. Her attire smoothly flared toward the bottom, transitioning into a flowing train embellished with complex gold embroidery, while a virtually weightless cape appeared woven from the living wings of a fire spirit. From this bold and spectacular image, the ladies present gasped with admiration and a touch of envy, while Marcus literally could not sever his gaze from his spouse.

“My word, at her years...” whispered one of the younger ladies, covering her fan with a lace glove. “Such openness! This is entirely improper for a married woman from a respectable family...”

“Whereas look at how her husband looks upon her,” another drawled envious. “She looks stunning, whether you like it or not.”

Azalea, walking in her wake, finished off the conservative section of the public entirely, compelling certain particularly old-fashioned lords even to turn purple with indignation.

“How did she dare put on trousers?!” a sharp whisper rang out from a corner where the guardians of traditions clustered. “And she unclasped her hair as well! Why, she is a woman with a ruined reputation, a divorcée! Where is her guardian looking?!”

Her flowing shirt was unbuttoned slightly, revealing the thinnest golden chains with pendants and teardrop rubies softly shimmering in the light of crystal chandeliers. Put on over the shirt, a fitted double-breasted vest flawlessly highlighted her sculpted silhouette, while a long draped cloak of a straight cut in a burgundy-brown color was artfully embroidered with golden astronomical motifs.

Her ensemble was slightly careless, yet produced that exact crushing “wow-effect” that she had been striving for.

While the representatives of the old authority and orthodox aristocracy furiously criticized such a frivolous attire, the young elite and pragmatic lords comprehended the chief matter: the Rosenthals had not arrived here to fit into their old world. They had arrived to alter this world.