I do not know if such a thing is possible.
But the fire has already chosen.
Then, now, so must I. And midnight waits for no one.
Chapter 4
Delia
Lord Thorne’s Bedchamber, Ashfell
How is this my life?
Masha—because yes, apparently that is the terrifyingly competent woman Thorne left me with—is not a maid so much as a force of nature.
A Demon version of a no-nonsense headmistress from every boarding school movie ever made. The kind who can silence a room with a look and probably has opinions about posture.
She explains briskly how to work the shower in the enormous bathing chamber attached to Thorne’s rooms.
The obsidian walls glow faintly with heat, veins of ember pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
The water is hot, mineral rich, smelling faintly of smoke and something floral I can’t name.
I shower, using luxurious soap I find in gold bottles and bowls.
Then I am… processed.
There is no other word for it.
If this is a spa day, then it’s one run by a woman who would absolutely kill you if you complained about the pressure.
I am scrubbed, creamed, massaged until every knot I didn’t know I carried gives up and dissolves.
My hair is washed, blown dry, coaxed into soft waves.
My face is painted with a light, careful, almost reverent hand.
By the time Masha steps back, I’m barely recognizable to myself.
Now she’s fitting me into a dress.
A white dress.
Long, flowing, sleeveless.
The fabric is light as breath, yet it shimmers—like a million stars fell out of the sky and someone sewed them into silk.
It pools at my feet, glowing softly against the dark stone floor.
I stare at my reflection.
The woman in the mirror looks powerful.
Not delicate. Not fragile.
Like someone who belongs somewhere important.
I don’t recognize her.
