An attendant steps inside, composed without being rigid, her eyes lifting just long enough to meet mine before lowering in acknowledgment. "I was sent to assist you for the evening,Majesty," she says, her voice even and practiced without sounding distant.
"You may," I say.
She moves with quiet efficiency, gathering the garments already prepared and laying them out with a care that suggests familiarity rather than ceremony. "The gathering tonight is not a small one," she says as she works. "It serves as both celebration and reassurance. With the Duke of Larafyn punished for treason, the court will wish to be seen." She smooths the fabric between her hands. "No one will risk their loyalty being questioned."
I watch her without interrupting.
"May I do your hair, Majesty?"
"Please," I say.
She works behind me with hands that are sure and controlled, drawing my hair back and building something structured without feeling rigid, the weight of it settling differently along my shoulders as she secures it in place. I remain still, letting the process unfold, the quiet of the room holding around us.
When she finishes, she steps aside. I look at my reflection, and for the first time in a long while, I feel beautiful. My body feels like mine again, in a way I had not expected to return so completely. The lines are familiar, something I recognize without question. My hair falls in burnished gold, rich and even in a way that mirrors my eyes. Perhaps it has always been that way, or perhaps I am only seeing it more clearly now. There is something different in me. More certain. More woman than girl.
The dress follows the curve of my waist and hips without hesitation. The neckline sits lower than I would have chosen, revealing more than I am accustomed to, and I understand immediately that whoever designed it had not accounted for the changes in my body. The line of it draws attention rather than softening it. A slit runs along one side, opening as I shift, exposing the length of my leg, the woven markings from the Weaver along my thigh visible in a way that feels less like accident and more like intention.
The attendant steps closer and presses a light scent at my wrist and throat, something subtle that does not announce itself. "You are ready, Majesty," she says.
I reach instinctively for the circlet, then stop once I remember that I threw it at Jessamy in the throne room yesterday and do not know where it is. Instead I open the box Aunt Petunis gave me, with various designs of the facial jewelry worn by Alarnan royals.“Alarnan women have always ruled, with or without partners,”she had said. I adjust it once, ensuring it rests where it should.“These do not fall,”Aunt Petunis had said.
I look at my reflection. The woman in the mirror is not uncertain. She is not waiting. For the first time in months I recognize her without hesitation. I turn from the mirror, the fabric shifting easily with the movement, and step toward the door.
Whatever waits beyond it will not find me unprepared.
Part Six
The Promise
SEVRIN
The letter is already open when he reads it again, the parchment creased where his grip had tightened, the ink offering nothing beyond what it gave him the first time.
The house is gone, overrun and broken down by a horde large enough to erase it entirely, and the morrak assigned to it has been killed.
There is a final note beneath the report.
Recovered from the remains.
He unfolds the inner fold and draws out a single strand of hair, darkened by heat but not entirely destroyed, and brings it closer without thinking.
The scent is faint beneath the burn, altered but still there.
It is hers.
The recognition is immediate, leaving no room for doubt and no answer beyond the fact that she had been there and is not now.
He sets it down and closes his hand around the edge of the table, the wood breaking beneath it as the force moves through him, the sound that follows low and uncontrolled before he forces it back under restraint.
He is no closer than he was before.
He exhales and holds himself still within the absence of anything useful, the room unchanged around him, the letter and the strand resting where he left them, and then something in him shifts.
He reaches for the only memory that has ever quieted him.
The sound of water arrives first.
The Past
