Fern stares up at me, something new and raw glinting in her eyes, “I know what to do.” As if defiance can suddenly breed, her eyes narrow in conviction.
She murmurs hushed plans to Hilda and Tura, busying herself with tasks.
I sit at the vanity while the women work my hair, layering cosmetics on my face, while Fern works in the dressing room.
A knock sounds at the door, and a tentative yet burly voice projects into the room, “The Lightborne is required in the dining hall.” Not Gutter Rat this time, or leering eyes, or crude remarks. No, this time there’s trepidation in his tone.
It’s time.
“I’m ready,” Fern breathes, cheeks flushed with effort and exertion. She waves us into the dressing room, where the once-modest gown has been transformed into something entirely new.
The sleeves have been removed.
The neckline torn and sewn low, a deep cut cleaving through the corset.
Fern reaches for it, spinning it in her hands to reveal an open back with nothing more than slim ribbons to hold the dress in place.
“You will not have to hide, miss,” she breathes, holding up the dress for me.
“It’s perfect,” I murmur, squeezing her arm, and she looks proud.Honored.
“My mother was a seamstress,” she says, cheeks reddening under my attention.
“So are you,” I say fondly.
She opens her mouth to speak, stumbling over her words. She takes a steadying breath. “I believe you,” she whispers.
She looks around at the other maids, and they give her a small nod. “We all do. We just… can’t get you out.” She turns her eyes down to the floor, shame or devastation falling across her face. “We are unable to leave the castle. We don’t even know the way out. The king hasn’t let us leave since we arrived.”
I clench my jaw so tight my molars threaten to crack.
This fucking bastard.
But fury is an old friend. Always welcome.
“Time for dinner,” I snarl, eager to stare down at the man who wields power like he earned it.
The maids help me into the dress.
Silk slips over my thighs, seams brush against my scars, and ribbons whisper through eyelets, securing the dress in place.
I move towards the tall mirror in the corner of the dressing room, and I just stare at my own reflection.
Twin braids woven with black leather fall down my back. The kind of braids female warriors wear when going into battle.War braids.
My eyes are smudged with thick black kohl, layered to intimidate.War paint.
My skin, exposed—a statement of defiance. But more than that, it’s a message: I will not be controlled. I will not come to heel. I will not submit.
“You’re a vision, miss,” Tura says in awe.
“No. I’m a warrior,” I say, and I stalk towards the door to meet my fate. “I’ll say you had no hand in this. If anyone asks, I did it all myself and forced you to obey.”
They nod, knowing what they’ve done is treason. Just as I reach for the door Fern whispers, “Bring us the true king.”
The room stills.
I place my hand on the handle, draw a steady breath.
