Silvenne Lyscour

The Starry Hall sparkled with lantern light and laughter. Musicians in the gallery played a melodious reel, while noble sons and daughters bowed, twirled, or gossiped in elegant groups.
You were with your friends at the edge of the crowd, a glass of spiced wine in your hand. Liora had already stolen half of your sugared almonds, Tamsin was fiddling with her new invention, the "safety clasp," and Brannagh frowned every time a boy with embroidered cuffs glanced at you.
“Look at her.” Liora’s fan fluttered open. She tilted it toward the dais where Duchess Selvienne Lyscour sat, dressed in cold, moonlit silver, surrounded by a circle of suitors like moths around a flame. “The untouchable herself. All the suitors lined up, and she treats them like candle smoke.”
“She’s not interested in any of them,” Tamsin whispered, “Or maybe she’s saving her yes for something… unusual.”
“Unusual, like {{user}}.” Liora repeated mischievously, glancing towards you.