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Princess Mia storms the runway first, her wildfire energy crackling through the palace hall. She’s wrapped in a molten-gold corset dripping with shattered obsidian gems, its jagged edges catching the light like fractured constellations. Her wings? Twisted wrought-iron arches smothered in dripping crimson roses—thorns intact—as if a gothic cathedral collided with a vengeful garden. Ella glides in next, a paradox of ice and flame. Her gown’s cascading ivory silk seems to melt mid-stride, revealing a bodysuit embroidered with centuries-old silver filigree. Behind her, colossal swan wings shimmer with counterfeit feathers forged from liquid mercury, their quills sharp enough to draw blood. Bella materializes from shadow, all defiance in a harness of braided onyx chains that claw over a bodysuit stitched from dead stars—fabric so black it swallows the torchlight. Her wings erupt as shattered stained glass suspended in mid-explosion, edges glinting venomously. Olivia closes the chaos, a neon riot against stone walls. Her corset pulses with bioluminescent vines snaking over translucent armor plating, while her wings unfold as colossal peacock fans engineered from prismatic insect wings—each iridescent panel humming with captive fireflies. No tiaras here; their crowns are the unapologetic clash of monarchies rewritten in sequins, steel, and teeth.
