<lora:Viva_Bianca_Flux:1> Ilithyia stumbles through the dimly lit corridor, the pristine white of her silk stola now stained with streaks of crimson. The delicate fabric clings to her, torn at the edges, the once-golden trim dulled by the chaos of the moment. Her hair, once immaculately styled, has begun to fall in loose, disheveled curls, framing her pale face. A single golden earring remains, its twin lost in the struggle. Her breath is ragged, her wide blue eyes filled with panic and fury as she presses a trembling hand against a cold stone wall for balance, the weight of treachery and survival bearing down upon her.
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