Which, legally, I suppose I am.
But I won't give him the satisfaction of begging for clothing. I'll figure this out myself.
I search the palace until I find a storage room on the third floor, hidden behind a door that opens only when I press my palm against the ice-carved handle. It's filled with what must be men's clothing from centuries past—rough-spun shirts and wool trousers, practical boots that are far too large, leather vests that hang loose on my frame.
The clothes smell of cedar and age, preserved by the same magic that keeps everything else in this palace in perfect condition. They're well-made but utterly masculine—cut for broader shoulders, longer limbs, bodies built for physical labor rather than drawing room conversation.
Nothing remotely feminine. Nothing that fits. But it's better than going naked.
I dress in layers to compensate for the poor fit. A shirt that falls to mid-thigh over trousers I have to roll repeatedly at the ankles. A vest cinched with a belt to give some shape to theshapeless outfit. Boots stuffed with cloth torn from my ruined chemise to keep them from sliding off my feet with every step.
When I catch sight of myself in the ice-covered windows, I want to weep.
I look ridiculous. Like a child playing dress-up in her father's closet, or a refugee who's grabbed whatever clothing she could find while fleeing some disaster. The person staring back at me from the reflective surface is unrecognizable—not the pampered heiress I used to be, but not the poised young woman I thought I'd become either.
I look lost. Diminished. Like I'm disappearing inside someone else's life.
But at least I'm covered.
Aratus finds me in the kitchen that evening, struggling to cook porridge in clothes that make every movement awkward. The oversized sleeves keep falling into the pot. The loose trousers bunch around my ankles, making me trip. I have to hold the vest closed with one hand while stirring with the other.
His frozen-lake eyes take in my appearance with something that might be amusement, though his expression remains as unreadable as ever.
"Interesting choice," he says mildly, leaning against the doorframe.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "My dress tore. This was all I could find."
"I see." He steps closer, and I can feel that familiar chill radiating from his skin. Ice crystals form in the air around him, dancing like tiny stars. "How do you like wearing men's clothing?"
"It's fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. The clothes make me feel like I'm disappearing—losing the last bits of who I used to be, piece by piece. Every time I catch my reflection, I see someone else entirely.
"Really?" He moves closer still, close enough that I can smell that intoxicating scent of pine and winter that clings to him like cologne. "You look... diminished. Like you're hiding inside someone else's life."
The words hit too close to home, striking at fears I don't want to acknowledge. I turn back to the porridge, blinking away the sting of tears that I refuse to shed in front of him.
"It's just clothing."
"Nothing is 'just' anything, princess. Everything matters. How you dress, how you move, how you present yourself to the world." His voice is soft but implacable, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Right now, you look like you've given up."
"Maybe I have." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"No." The single word carries absolute authority. "You haven't. You're still fighting me, even if you don't realize it. Still clinging to the idea that this is temporary."
I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because part of me is still fighting. Still hoping that somehow, some way, I'll find a path back to my old life. That this is all some elaborate nightmare I'll wake up from.
But looking at myself in these borrowed clothes, I feel that hope slipping away like sand through my fingers.
He watches me eat dinner in my oversized attire, and I feel his disapproval like a weight on my shoulders. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken judgment. The palace seems colder tonight, the frost patterns on the windows sharper and less forgiving than usual.
Even the magic knows I look wrong.
Day seventeen passes in uncomfortable awareness of my appearance. I go about my tasks in clothes that don't fit, feeling smaller and more lost with each hour. The trousers bunch at my ankles, making me shuffle rather than walk. The shirt slipsoff my shoulders constantly, requiring endless adjustment. I trip twice in the oversized boots, once almost falling into the fire.
It's humiliating in a way that's different from eating on the floor. That was punishment for defiance—harsh but temporary. This feels like erasure. Like watching myself fade away, becoming invisible even to my own eyes.
The palace responds to my diminished state. Hallways seem longer and colder. Doors stick when I try to open them. Even the ice sculptures in the courtyard turn away when I pass, as if they find my appearance offensive.
I'm failing some test I don't understand.
