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The water is hot when I sink into it, scented with herbs and something sweeter.

Under their hands, I tip my head back and let them work.

They wash my hair and scrub my skin with brisk, thorough motions that leave absolutely no room for modesty.

Their matter-of-fact approach takes the edge off the discomfort, but only a little and I find myself staring fixedly at the ceiling during the more …

personal moments, gritting my teeth and counting breaths, and telling myself it’s just like going to get a bikini wax …

not that I’ve ever been to get that done.

Throughout their ministrations, the women chatter and laugh among themselves, trying to draw me into their conversations through gestures and smiles. The words are mostly lost on me, but their warmth isn’t.

When they’re finished with the bath, they usher me out and wrap me in soft cloths, towelling my hair before guiding me toward a low chair.

One kneels to rub oils into my skin, the scent heady and unfamiliar, while another combs through my damp hair with deft, gentle fingers. She separates sections with quick motions, weaving intricate braids along the crown and sides, while leaving the rest loose down my back.

I close my eyes for a moment, and let them work. Let myself pretend, for just a second, that this is normal. That I’m someone who belongs to this world, and not a strange half-thing caught between two realities.

The undergarments they dress me in are simple but comfortable. A soft band that supports my breasts without constricting, and bottoms that remind me of shorts.

When they lift the dress, they don’t slide it over my head. Instead, they have me step carefully into it. The fabric rises around me, whispering against my skin, cool and weightless as they fasten the tiny silver clasps running up my spine.

Their hands are sure, adjusting the bodice to skim my body without clinging, arranging the sleeves so they end just below my elbows. The skirt falls in clean folds to my ankles, the side slits hidden unless I move. Movement without sacrifice. Grace without armor.

They slip soft leather slippers onto my feet, dyed the same midnight blue as the dress, silver threaded with the same constellation patterns.

Only when they’re satisfied do they turn to the cosmetics. I sit still as they dust powders across my face, brush color over my eyelids and lips. They spend the most time on my eyes, consulting among themselves in low voices, discussing something I don’t understand.

When they finally guide me to a polished metal mirror, I don’t recognize the woman who stares back.

She looks … otherworldly. Elegant. Composed .

There’s none of the dust-caked traveler left, none of the girl who stumbled into a desert still dressed for winter in Chicago.

Even my eyes seem different. No longer just brown, but threaded through with silver and deep blue, the color radiating outward from my pupils like something alive.

One of the women smiles, satisfied. “ Vashira selurin, ” she says softly. Lovely appearance .

“ Narem .” I wish I had better words to express my gratitude.

They gather their things and file out, leaving behind only the faint scent of herbs and a too-quiet room.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers across the silver embroidery on my sleeve. The patterns aren’t just decoration. They form constellations. Stars arranged into shapes and lines that speak a language I don’t understand.

I trace the stitched lines absently, the quiet pressing in around me.

If I wear this dress.

If I walk through the stronghold tonight.

If I stand beside Sacha while they bow and whisper …

What does that make me?

My head lifts at the knock on my door. When I call out permission to enter, it opens, and Sacha steps inside. He stops abruptly when he sees me, one foot still raised mid-step.

The stillness that overtakes him is absolute.

Not just physical immobility, but a complete cessation of movement, as though even the air around him has paused.

For once, the mask he wears slips, just for a heartbeat, before it slides back into place.

But I catch it. Genuine surprise in eyes that rarely reveal anything unintentional.

I stand, smoothing my hands down over my thighs, acutely aware of the way the dress fits my body for the first time. But it’s not the silk against my skin that unsettles me, it’s the way his gaze finds and holds every line.

“How much time before we leave?”

“Not long.” His voice sounds rougher than usual, the words catching slightly in his throat before he clears it. “A few minutes.”

His eyes move over me again. And I let myself look at him, really look at him .

Gone are the practical travel clothes, replaced by formal attire that carves him into something sharper, more commanding.

Black on black on black. Tunic, pants, and a long coat that falls to mid-calf, all cut to his frame with a precision that makes him seem taller, broader.

Silver embroidery traces the edges of the coat, but where mine holds stars, his patterns suggest something darker.

Shadows flowing, folding back into themselves.

His sword hangs at his hip, the darkness of its sheath seeming to ripple faintly, as if alive.

There's something different about him tonight.

His jaw is cleanly shaven, the sharp angles of his face catching the lamplight.

His hair falls loose around his shoulders, darker than midnight, but smoother than I’ve seen before, as if even that small wildness has been reined in.

Only the single thin braid remains, hanging by his temple, three dark beads woven into it.

They don’t catch the light. They drink it.

But it’s his eyes that truly reveal the change.

Not the full black of his unleashed power, but darker than before. Shadow moving just behind the irises, subtle but impossible to mistake. A depth that wasn’t there in the tower, or in the mountains, or even days ago in Ravencross.

The prisoner I met is completely gone. What stands before me now is something else entirely.

And it’s not just how he looks.

It’s the way he holds himself. All the careful restraint he usually maintains to appear ordinary has fallen away.

He stands taller now, shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, giving him an edge of arrogance—not the loud, brash kind, but the quiet certainty of someone who no longer intends to hide what he is.

As though he’s stepped fully back into a role born to command rather than conceal.

For a few long seconds, he just looks at me.

“You look …” He stops, seeming to reconsider his words.

“Different?” I offer, because the silence stretches too long, and I need to say something, anything , to break it.

“Transformed.” The word is soft. “The dress suits you.”

The compliment catches me off guard, heating my cheeks. “Thank you. They went to a lot of trouble.”

“It’s strategic as well as symbolic.” He moves further into the room, the space between us shrinking with every step. “Your appearance tonight will cause an impact. First impressions matter, particularly among those who have heard rumors but seen nothing.”

And just like that, the manipulations return.

Every human moment with Sacha inevitably reveals its calculated underside. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen how his mind works since I first laid eyes on him in the tower, where he turned me into just another piece on his mental chessboard.

But it still stings. Still leaves a bitter taste I can’t quite swallow. What would it feel like if, just once, he said something simply because he meant it, and not because it served a purpose?

“So, I’m a prop for your triumphant return?”

“Not a prop. An important factor.” He stops an arm’s length away, his gaze steady. “You have to understand, Ellie. Your presence changes everything, both for me and them. How you are received will influence what happens next.”

I fiddle with my sleeve. “And how should I behave? Since this is all planned out.”

“Be yourself.”

When I snort, he shakes his head, another one of those almost-smile’s ghosting over his lips. “Your natural reactions to this world carry more authenticity than any role I might suggest. That is more valuable than pretending.”

Something in his tone makes me lift my head. When I meet his gaze, there’s an intensity there that has nothing to do with political maneuvering.

“You’ve continually adapted to circumstances that would break others. You’ve faced a new world, dangers beyond your experience, and you still keep your goal in mind.” His eyes meet mine. “That resilience is powerful, Ellie. More valuable than any dress or ceremony.”

The unexpected praise cuts through my defenses. Is this another calculation, another move in whatever game he’s playing? Or something genuine, a rare moment of truth between us? I search his face for clues, but his expression reveals nothing beyond that intense focus.

The words stick in my throat —thank you, dismissal, challenge—all competing to emerge. Before I can formulate a response, another knock announces the return of the women. They enter with obvious excitement, shattering the moment. They stop when they see Sacha, immediately dropping into courtsey’s.

“ Vashna tem, Shadowverin .”

“Narem .” He addresses the eldest directly, and she nods, replying briefly before drawing the others out of the room.

“Ready?” He extends his arm to me.

I place my hand on his sleeve, the fabric unexpectedly soft beneath my fingers, and we follow the women through passages that wind deeper into the mountain stronghold.

The passageways are mostly empty, everyone already gathered ahead of us, the distant hum of voices and music swelling the deeper we go.