The silver strands I've grown accustomed to seeing—inherited from heritage I thought I understood, carrying the particular metallic sheen of vampire bloodlines—have transformed entirely. Gold cascades around my face in waves that catch the cocoon's bioluminescence and scatter it into a thousand fractured rays. Not blonde, not yellow, butgold—the actual metal brought to life as hair, each strand seeming to glow with its own internal light source.
My eyes.
The crimson that usually dominates my gaze—vampire hunger made visible, the particular red that speaks to bloodlines that need specific sustenance—has vanished entirely. In its place...
Pink.
Vivid, impossible pink that seems to pulse with energy I can feel rather than simply see.
With golden rings circling my pupils like tiny halos, like the coronas around eclipsed suns, like physical manifestations of power that refuses to stay contained.
I blink, watching the reflection blink back, and the movement makes those golden rings shimmer with light that feels almost alive.
My skin.
The pallor I've carried since birth—the particular paleness that speaks to vampire nature, the canvas that shows every flush and surge of blood with embarrassing clarity—has darkened into something approaching tan. Warmth radiates from flesh that used to reject sunlight, color suggesting health and vitality that my half-dead heritage never quite achieved before.
And theglow.
My skin doesn't just look healthy—itshimmers. Subtle luminescence that becomes apparent when I shift, when light catches angles differently, when movement creates opportunities for the phenomenon to manifest. The shimmer carries the particular quality of magic made visible, power bleeding through flesh that can no longer fully contain it.
My ears.
I turn my head slightly, examining the profile that the water mirror faithfully reflects.
They're pointier.
Not dramatically so—not the exaggerated points that some artistic renderings of Fae suggest—but definitely more angularthan the rounded curves I'm accustomed to seeing. The tips carry subtle elevation that speaks to heritage finally asserting itself in physical form, bloodlines that have apparently decided to stop hiding and start manifesting.
My lips.
Soft pink that matches my transformed eyes, fuller than I remember them being, carrying a natural pout that looks almost deliberate despite being entirely unconscious. The color seems to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, flush that responds to internal states rather than external application.
My cheeks.
Rosy with color that would usually indicate embarrassment but seems permanent in this transformed state, giving my face the particular appearance of perpetual health and vitality. The flush extends across cheekbones that seem more defined than before, structure emerging from beneath skin that has apparently decided to stop hiding my true bone structure.
And theaura.
Even through the water mirror's reflection, I can see it—energy radiating from my transformed form in patterns that feel fundamentally different from anything I've experienced before. The power that surrounds me carries feminine qualities I've never associated with my own magic. Softer edges. Warmer tones. The particular grace that speaks to nurturing potential alongside destructive capability.
I'm mesmerized.
My arm lifts, and I watch the reflection mirror the movement, both of us observing the shimmer that intensifies with motion. The light seems to dance along my skin, playing across surfaces that have become canvases for phenomena I don't understand. Each shift in position creates new patterns, new sparkles, new evidence of the transformation that has apparently occurred while I slept.
The fabric I'm wearing—I only now notice it properly—has changed along with everything else.
The dress that Koi conjured has shifted into something more suited to my transformed state, one being similar to the one he had made before…before Cassius burned it.
The midnight blue and purple have lightened into shades of rose and gold, colors that complement rather than contrast with my new coloring. The material remains partially sheer—transparent panels creating windows to skin beneath—but the effect is different now. More ethereal. Moreroyal.
The bodice hugs my form with structure that speaks to careful craftsmanship, golden threads tracing patterns across fabric that seems to move with the same shimmer as my skin. The skirt flows in layers that catch every current of air, each movement sending ripples through material so fine it appears almost liquid. Where the fabric is sheer, my glowing skin shows through with the particular aesthetic of intentional revelation rather than accidental exposure.
Silhouette speaks to status I haven't earned and don't understand—the particular cut of garments designed for beings who rule rather than serve. The neckline frames my collarbones with precision that draws attention to skin that now carries permanent luminescence. The sleeves, if they can be called sleeves, are mere suggestions—wisps of fabric that trail from my shoulders and drift with every movement, transparent enough that my arms are essentially bare but decorated enough that the bareness feels deliberate.
This is what royalty wears.
The thought surfaces with certainty that transcends simple observation. The gown carries the particular craftsmanship of court attire—garments designed not merely to clothe but to declare status, to announce presence, to make visual statement that words could never achieve. Every detail speaks to powerand position, from the way golden embroidery traces paths across my ribs to the way the hem seems to float rather than simply fall.
