Page 10 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

ARYA

I f someone had told me three weeks ago that I would be standing in the gilded suite of a luxury hotel in a strange place called Los Angeles, applying pigments to the face of a woman who called herself “Tiffy La Flame,” I would have assumed they had suffered a head injury.

In truth, most of these terms—luxury hotel, artificial lighting, hairspray, and the ever-confusing term “influencer”—had only recently made it into my vocabulary, thanks to Angie's relentless coaching.

Since my... arrival in this bizarre land, she had made it her mission to familiarize me with this world, even when I protested that modern plumbing was already a sufficient marvel with which to contend.

She would make me watch strange, glowing boxes called YouTube videos and quiz me on things like “setting spray” and “highlighter” (but not the writing kind).

I learned quickly because I had no choice, and because I refused to be outdone by a civilization that seemed obsessed with screens and posing for pictures instead of surviving winter or dragon attacks.

But here I was. Drenched in artificial lighting. Drowning in hairspray. Armed with a case of make-up supplies Angie had painstakingly explained to me like I was a child learning to walk.

Tiffy La Flame was perched in a plush velvet chair before me, her cheeks already perfectly symmetrical, her lips unnaturally plump.

She wore a silk robe the color of overripe fruit as her entourage flitted about the hotel suite like nervous birds.

One was ironing her dress. Another was filming content for her followers, mumbling things like “Get the BTS, but not too BTS,” whatever that meant.

The third had taken to feeding her mistress cut strawberries with a golden fork.

I pressed a foundation sponge to her cheek with practiced precision. Angie stood behind me with her arms crossed, radiating the quiet threat of someone who would absolutely drag me out by the ear if I so much as called someone a “peasant.”

“So!” Tiffy chirped, slightly tilting her head as I blended. “How long have you been doing make-up? Your vibe is very, like, serious. Kinda 'Medieval Couture.' I’m into it.”

“I have painted since I was five,” I primly replied. “Though never on faces.”

Tiffy blinked. “Okaaay, love that. So... like, Renaissance portraits and stuff?”

“Precisely.” I dusted translucent powder over her forehead. “I once painted a war widow so lifelike, the emperor mistook her for one of the living.”

Tiffy laughed. Or at least I assumed it was a laugh. It was shrill and abrupt, like a flock of dying birds. “You’re funny. You have, like, total main character energy. Are you an Aquarius?”

“I am Arya Ryder, daughter of the Minister of Rites,” I replied without thinking.

Angie choked on her coffee behind me.

Tiffy tilted her head. “Is that, like, a cult thing?”

“She means her last name is Ryder,” Angie smoothly cut in, stepping forward with a smile so fake it could be melted down into plastic. “She's European. Super... old-money.”

Tiffy nodded like she understood, though of course she didn’t.

“That’s, like, so exclusive. Ugh, I love accents. You kind of sound like a villain in a period drama, but, like, hot. ”

“I have no idea what you just said,” I muttered, reaching for the liquid highlighter.

“She means it as a compliment,” Angie whispered.

I moved on to Tiffy's eye make-up, carefully blending bronze into her crease. Her lashes had already been curled and primed. I had learned this part of the process from YouTube videos Angie made me watch at least fifteen times. Apparently, “smoky eye” did not refer to setting the lashes on fire.

Tiffy's phone buzzed on the table.

“Can someone get that? If it's Keith, tell him I want the puppy back by Monday. That is not negotiable.”

One of the young men from her entourage picked it up and scrolled across the screen with a sigh. “It’s just your Insta. Trending again.”

Tiffy preened. “Of course I am. What's the hashtag?”

“#LaFlameRedReign.”

“Perfect! Get some b-roll of Arya doing my lips. She’s, like, aesthetic.”

I paused with a lipstick wand in my hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“Aesthetic,” she repeated. “Like, you have that whole ‘I drink tea at dusk and own a cursed mirror’ thing going.”

Angie snorted behind her fist.

I scowled but applied the matte red lipstick with a precision that made Tiffy's phone-handler whisper, “She’s good.”

“What are you doing the rest of the night?” Tiffy asked between puckering.

“Hopefully returning to a place with fewer ring lights.”

“You should totally come to the after-party! They’re renting a fake castle. You’d be, like, so in your element.”

“A fake castle?” I repeated, scandalized. “Why would someone pretend to have a castle when they could simply acquire one?”

Tiffy turned to Angie, wide-eyed. “She’s committed. I love it.”

“She’s theater-trained,” Angie offered. “Stanislavski style.”

“Total method queen.” The moment I finished, Tiffy clapped her hands together. “Omigod, it’s perfect! I look like I eat diamonds and bleed rose water.”

I stepped back, relieved. “Your transformation is complete.”

Tiffy stood and turned to a gilded mirror the size of a carriage door. “Goddess. Literal goddess.” She turned and kissed both of my cheeks, leaving behind a faint smear of setting spray. “If you weren’t already, like, a genius, I’d say you should marry rich. You have trophy energy.”

I blinked. “I already am rich.” Even though technically my family was going bankrupt… but I didn’t need to go into detail.

She waved off my comment. “I know. I meant vibes .”

Her entourage sprang into motion, bustling around her with perfume and garment bags. Angie gently nudged me toward the corner of the suite.

“You’re doing great,” she whispered. “Just keep it up. No imperial proclamations, and for the love of God, stop saying ‘beg your pardon’ like you're going to duel someone.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I should very much like to duel that one with the glitter blazer,” I muttered.

“No dueling. Just blend.”

We moved to gather our things, though Tiffy stopped me to ask for one last contour touch-up before descending to the car. I obliged with a sigh and she leaned in again.

“So, are you on TikTok?”

“Is that a form of medication?”

Tiffy blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re so weird, I love it! Can I tag you in my pics on Insta?”

Angie artfully stepped in. “She doesn’t have socials yet. Still working on her debut.”

“Ugh, chic. A mystery. We’re all so online these days. Your lack of presence is refreshing.”

Once Tiffy swept out with her entourage in a cloud of perfume, the suite was blissfully quiet. Angie and I stood in the echo of it all, surrounded by soft brushes, palettes, and chaos.

“I think that went well,” she remarked dryly.

I sank onto a fainting couch. “It was exhausting.”

Angie grinned. “Yes, but you didn’t call anyone a peasant. That’s progress.”

“I came close.”

She chuckled, picking up a powder brush and tapping it against her palm. “You know, you’re kind of good at this.”

I sniffed and glanced down at my nails. “I am good at everything.”

“No kidding.”

There was a beat of silence between us, comfortable, almost soft.

“Angie?”

“Yeah?”

“What, exactly, is an Aquarius?”

She smiled. “I’ll explain on the drive back.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Will it involve glitter?”

“Almost certainly.”

I groaned and stood. “This world is mad.”

“Welcome to L.A., my lady.”

And with that, I followed her out of the suite, still not entirely sure if I had just performed a sacred rite or participated in a circus.

Possibly both.