And, even if I—or she—did somehow awaken his magic, wouldn’t that be suicidal? I mean, for me as well as him, if he couldn’t control it. As much as I hate it, my fate is still tied to his.
“Sit,” Selen instructs, continuing her work. I ponder her words as she gestures to a small stool before a mirror. From a drawer, she produces a wooden box. Inside lies a sparse assortment of mineral cosmetics: powder and paste in soft earth tones, and a small pot of something ruby-colored.
Memories surface unbidden—of hiding in the corner of a dressmaker's shop, watching nobles prepare for a function. I'd been fascinated by the ritual some would perform while waiting to be attended, the way they transformed themselves with strokes of brushes and careful application of color.
Selen’s fingers work deftly through my hair, twisting and pinning it into an elegant updo that exposes the clean lines of my neck and shoulders. She says little, occasionally murmuring instructions like “Tilt your head,” but otherwise maintaining a focused silence.
When she applies the cosmetics, her touch is light but deliberate. A dusting of powder across my cheekbones, something to the outline of my eyes, to darken and curl my eyelashes. She uses the ruby-colored paste sparingly on my lips.
I sit still under her ministrations, watching fragments of the transformation in the small mirror. It's not until she steps back with a satisfied nod that I see the full effect.
The woman staring back at me seems a stranger.
Gone is the dirt-smudged recruit, the girl with hollow cheeks and wary eyes. In her place sits someone who could pass for nobility. Elegant, composed, almost regal. The gown's deep blue makes my skin appear luminous, and the updo elongates my neck,lending me a grace I've never possessed. My pale lilac eyes now seem to catch the light.
I lift a hand to my face, half-expecting the illusion to shatter. But the reflection mimics my movement with the same stunned expression.
Selen's mouth curves slightly. “Amazing what a little effort can accomplish, isn't it?”
I stare at my reflection, transfixed. I look... almost beautiful. Not in the fragile, porcelain way of imperial courtiers, but with a quiet intensity that surprises me. It's still my face beneath the subtle cosmetics, but somehow transformed, as if Selen has simply revealed what was hidden rather than created something new.
“Time to go,” she says, gathering her supplies.
“You’re full of surprises,” I murmur.
Her smirk is brief but sly. “You’ve no idea.”
I rise from the stool, the gown flowing around me like water. It clings and trails just right, whispering against the floor as I follow Selen back toward her office.
But just before we reach the door, she pauses. Slipping a hand into her pocket, she draws out two tiny bottles of familiar black liquid. With quick, furtive movements, she tucks them into a hidden slit in the gown’s lining.
“In case they’re needed,” she says quietly. “A small sip does the trick.”
My fingers find the vials beneath the fabric. “What?—”
But Selen is already opening the door, stepping back into the outer chamber where Zeriel waits.
Chapter 27
Zeriel turns as we enter, and I half expect a critique to be poised on his tongue. But the words never come.
The moment his eyes find me, his expression stills, as if the sight of me has stripped something from him.
Even Selen falters behind me, pausing just long enough to savor the hairline crack in armor.
It isn’t awe, or softness, not quite. It reminds me of a night-hunter startled by a light it didn’t expect, caught between instinct and recognition. His gaze lingers a beat too long, recalibrating, remapping me, as though the ground beneath him has shifted. For the space of a breath, I could swear he forgets who he’s supposed to be.
Then he covers it quickly, looking me over as if assessing. “That will do,” he says, though his voice is a tad lower.
Selen arches an eyebrow, clearly delighted at having unsettled the unflappable. “I suspect it will do more than that,” she says dryly, as she straightens a sleeve on my arm. “Shall we?”
Zeriel nods curtly toward the door. Selen follows us there, close as a shadow but radiating a faint amusement that says: I know what I’ve done, and I’m going to enjoy every second.
When Zeriel and I exit her room, she closes the door behindus with a soft click. The corridor outside pulses with the noise of the Ironhold at evening: the echoing footsteps of recruits herded to barracks, the hungry, hollow roars of dragons restless in their pens.
“So, where now?” I ask, side-eyeing him. “I’m guessing you’re not going dressed like that.”
“No,” he says, tone returning to pragmatic, but still somewhat deeper than normal. “You’ll wait with the dragons while I change.”
