The Corban Ice Arena had never looked more alive, or more wrong.

Crystal chandeliers now hung from chains of living flame. The ice itself shimmered between perfect white and molten orange, as if the rink were a lake frozen over hell. Every seat was filled: politicians in cursed tuxedos, socialites with phoenix-feather gowns, board members whose eyes glowed the same sickly green as Agnetha’s wards. The scoreboard read:

CORBAN GRAND PRIX – FINAL NIGHT

Pairs ...