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“It cannot possibly be as bad as what you were expected to wear in the palace.”

“It’s definitely worse!”

Wren stared at the flimsy material lying on her bed. Even her Verlantian wedding dress hadn’t been as shockingly insubstantial as this, something which Wren hadn’t thought possible. At least that had been white. This ankle-length dress was made of wisps of sheer material the color of her skin, with tiny pinprick jewels sewn in to artfully protect her “modesty.” Worse: it was attached by one simple clasp at the back of the neck, making it far too easy for someone to undo the dress and send it tumbling to the floor.

There was more substance to the jewelry that came with it than the dress itself: heavy bronze necklaces, rose gold bangles, and a pair of dangling earrings pitted with pearls and black diamonds Wren highly suspected came from the Dragon Isles.

Five days had passed since the rebels arrived at Lord Idril’s castle. Five days, and Wren hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the elf lord—nor, as it transpired, much of anyone else. Which was a blessing and a curse.

She’d sat in her sumptuous room or wandered the dark corridors, trying and failing to talk to the staff in the kitchens or the women silently cleaning bathrooms and banquet halls. Wren had thought she was going to go insane with how little anyone wanted to speak a single word to her. What was everyone hiding? Had Vienne given a command for everyone to ignore her? Or had their master commanded them to never speak?

Even Leif had made himself scarce. Stars, she longed for some witty back-and-forth banter, a combative debate, or teasing and insults. It sounded liked she was pining over her beastly husband. Which was absurd and disturbing because he was her enemy.

Vienne sighed and rubbed at her temples. “Why must you be so difficult?”

Wren ignored her aunt and ran her finger along a necklace.

Leif and Bram had returned that morning, but all Leif had promised was that they’d catch up after the dinner party that evening. He had much to tell her. She had wondered what in the blazes he’d been referring to, but then Vienne had finally deigned to grace her niece with her presence.

And apresent.

If one could call it that.

The slip of material masquerading itself as a dress was definitely not a gift. It was another way to control her. To see how compliant she could be.

“Come now,” Vienne said disapprovingly, as she brushed her beautiful hair that was so like her sister’s into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, “there’s no time to waste. Get dressed. Idril has requested you keep your hair loose, so make sure it really shines.”

“Idril, is it? So familiar, Aunt?”

Vienne scowled. “What are you getting at?”

“That you’re groveling and it’s beneath you.”

Her aunt shook her head. “You have no idea what you speak of. Put on the dress.”

“Why should I? I’m not wearing that!” Wren stated evenly. Where did the insidious elf get off on deciding what she should and shouldn’t wear? Or what her hair should be like? “I will dress as I please.”

For a moment, it looked as if her aunt would shout at her, but then her expression softened. “I’m wearing something very similar to you, niece, and you can trust I did not choose it either. But in these situations, we women have to use every asset we have in our arsenal to gain the upper hand in a world dominated by men. Think of this dress as armor and you will be fine.”

Wren flinched.

Queen Astrid had said something very similar on her wedding day. She had been the only one to show Wren any kindness in the palace, since she was still unsure as to whether Kalles gifting her a knife to dispatch her new husband counted as kindness, cruelty, or something else entirely. And the way Arrik had begun to treat Wren before she ran away didn’t count. It was all a lie.

Was it really, though?

He’d wanted something from her. Something she hadn’t wanted to give. Her trust, her kingdom, herself. Even now, when she had more perspective on what the prince might be planning, Wren couldn’t say that she’d actively help him the way he wanted her to.

For howcouldshe trust him? But if that were the case, why didn’t she kill him when she had the chance? Why did she let herself think on him without disgust? Why did she seem to trust his motives more than whatever the rebellion was doing by pairing up with Lord Idril?

She looked at the dress once more and scowled. A dress was a small concession. There were bigger battles to be fought.

“Fine. You win this round, Aunt.”

Vienne grimaced. “I’m not your enemy.”

Wren looked at her aunt. “It doesn’t seem that way most days.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m not trying to be hard on you, but war is upon us. We can’t be soft.”