Tamsin lets out a slow breath. “That’s definitely not from the student shop.”
No. It’s not. It’s beautiful and very possibly cursed.
I run my fingers along the edge of the fabric. It speaks to me. Not audibly—but under my skin. Someone made this dress with me in mind.
Tamsin glances sideways at me. “Well? Are you going to try it on or stand there like it might bite?”
“It might bite,” I mutter.
“Exactly. Which is why you’re definitely wearing it.”
I don’t argue. Because deep down, I know she’s right. This dress was made for a version of me I’m just starting to become. And whoever sent it...they knew.
They knew I’d say yes.
Tamsin doesn’t stop me when I lift the dress from the box.
She just watches in silence as I carry it toward the back corner of the shared dorm, past mismatched beds and secondhand shelves, into the changing alcove sectioned off with old curtain rods and half-stuck privacy spells.
The light’s dull here.
But the cracked mirror above the rust-stained sink just outside the area will be enough once I’m changed.
I slip out of my training clothes and pull the dress over my head.
It fits like it was made for me.
The bodice clings, the leather-like fabric flexing around my ribs, chest, and hips like a second skin. It’s structured but fluid, shaped to me in a way that makes breathing feel like a performance. The high neck fastens with a quiet click at the base of my throat, and as I shift, the straps shift too—barely-there cuts along the shoulders revealing flashes of skin like a dare. The gossamer layers of the skirt float with my movement, whispering against my thighs. And the spider-silk detail climbs over my collarbone, delicate and terrifyingly elegant.
I stare at my reflection.
The girl in the mirror looks like me, but different at the same time. Shadow-wrapped. Dangerous.
“Damn,” someone mutters behind me.
I startle. Turn.
A girl with magenta streaks in her shaved hair is leaned against one of the bunk posts, chewing on a licorice root stick as if she owns the world. She’s one of the older students—quiet, usually half-vanished behind spell books or charms that buzz faintly from her corner of the dorm.
“You look like you’re about to seduce a god or destroy one,” she says, eyes narrowing appreciatively. “Either way, I approve.”
I blink. “Uh…thanks?”
She nods toward the dress. “Custom weave. That stitching near your hip? That’s Nightfang thread. Costs more than my tuition would if I weren’t here on a scholarship.”
My fingers graze the place she’s talking about, and sure enough, it shimmers subtly—like moonlight caught in ink.
“Did you see who left it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Box was just there when I got back from Advanced Hexwork. Didn’t see anyone. But judging by the vibes?” Her smile tilts, sharp and amused. “Someone’s either in love with you, terrified of you…or wants something very specific.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure which answer would be worse.
When she wanders off, I turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back still looks like me—but not like the me from before.
This version has thorns. And a purpose. And maybe a little power humming in her bones.
Tamsin comes over, and her eyes widen as she takes me in.
