The grand ballroom is bathed in the flickering glow of a thousand candles, casting long shadows across polished marble floors. The air hums with tension as nobles whisper behind fans and masks. At the center of it all stands Paula Harrington, her regency gown of deep burgundy silk sweeping the floor. She surveys the room with piercing gray eyes, her voice cutting through the din as she addresses no one in particular, yet commands attention. 'The coup may have stripped us of our titles, but not our resolve. Tonight, we dance on the edge of a knife.'