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CHAPTER SEVEN

BELLE

“S till no word?” Queen Indira demanded of the fae guards in the doorway.

Both men visibly gulped as they towered over the diminutive woman. One, a tall man with a scar cutting across his cheek, bravely stepped forward.

“No, Your Grace. It’s as if she disappeared into the ether. We worry… it may be foul play.”

“You think someone has taken her?”

“There’s a chance,” the second guard, who had perfect skin and a square jaw, admitted. “The Summer Castle is largely unguarded. There have been troll sightings in the area.”

The queen's pale skin went ashen. “A troll? Here? This close to the capital?”

“We’re not within the capital’s walls, Your Grace,” the tall guard reminded her. “The Summer Castle has little to no defense as the royal family no longer keeps residence here.”

"You'd think the trolls would have some self-preservation to stay away with that beast here."

I pursed my lips together to preserve the words that would do no good to anyone. Prince Adom might look like a monster, but he was gentle, careful even. At least with me. Me—the woman lying to his face from behind a veil.

The sound of footsteps drawing near interrupted the tension. The queen spun toward me. “Put the veil back on,” she hissed.

I grabbed the scratchy lace veil from the table and slipped it over my head just as Colson appeared in the entry. He carried a carefully folded garment draped over his arm. He bowed stiffly, his face unreadable as always, and placed the garment on the table beside me.

“The prince’s wedding suit, as you requested, Your Highness.” He bowed again and left as quickly as he had come.

The queen shooed the guards out behind the chamberlain. The door clicked shut, and I tugged the veil off again, but not before the coarse fabric caught on the strands of my hair. As soon as I was free of the lace, I reached for the suit.

It was white, pure and untouched, like the light of the moons on a cloudless night. There were no embellishments, no details, nothing to catch the eye. Just plain, stark white.

That wouldn’t do. Not for a royal wedding. Not for the prince who would stand beside the most intricate garment I’d ever created.

"You are a little upstart, aren't you? While I admire you turning this to your advantage, you have more important things to concern yourself with.”

“With respect, Your Grace, this is my concern. I’m a seamstress. Not a princess or a warrior. I'm not your daughter. I can’t find your daughter. And I can’t fight trolls. What I can do is make the prince look the part of a king next to the princess, who will soon be queen of Solmane.”

Queen Indira's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “Do what you must. Make him look… presentable. While you do that, I’ll continue to worry about finding Charlotte.”

The door closed behind her, leaving me alone with the bridal gown and the groom’s suit. I ran my fingers over the fabric of the suit, assessing it carefully. The cloth was fine, but it lacked character, lacked life. It was a canvas, waiting for someone to make it extraordinary. If there was one thing I could do, it was turn scraps into splendor.

As a child, I grew up wearing threadbare garments so patched together they were barely fit to be called clothes. But my magic had a way of weaving wonders. I tailored those scraps until they shimmered with the illusion of finery. The fabric was still poor, its quality unchanged, but no one could tell by looking at it. And no one cared. My creations showcased my body’s best assets, concealing flaws while drawing the eye to what was beautiful.

That was my gift: I could take the humblest material and make it sing, hiding imperfections and revealing hidden potential.

In Evergrove, after being hired by the queen to craft her and her daughter's gowns from nothing, I became known for this. I was sought after by everyone who had a wedding, a feast, or a festival to attend. But Evergrove was small, and its people were … let's call it humble. My work wasn’t meant to languish in the confines of the small municipality of Evergrove.

Now with both the royal wedding gown and the prince’s suit entrusted to me, my moment had come. When the royal court laid eyes on my creations, my name would echo through the kingdom. I would no longer just be Belle of Evergrove. I would be the most sought-after designer in all of Solmane.

I gathered my tools, my mind already racing with ideas. The prince would stand beside his bride, a vision of power and grace. He would not simply be seen. He would be remembered.

The room was quiet except for the soft snip of my scissors and the faint rustle of fabric as I worked. My fingers moved instinctively over his suit, tugging, folding, pinning, as though the fabric whispered its secrets to me. I didn't need to take his measurements with tape. My fingers remembered every line of his frame, every rise of muscle.

His broad shoulders had stretched the seams of his coat. I imagined him filling this suit out, the sharp lines accentuating the curve of pecs. He was more beast than man, yes, but his body… his body was a marvel.

I added gold thread to the pants, my needle gliding through the fabric with practiced ease. His thick thighs were the kind that could crush an opponent—or, perhaps, pin someone in place. If Charlotte didn’t hurry back, I’d gladly take her place as his bride.

The needle pricked my index finger. I brought the digit to my mouth, horrified at myself. That kind of thinking was pure lunacy. Worse, it was treason.

I was nobody. A seamstress. A dressmaker. Not a bride. Not to a prince.

Figuring I must be lightheaded, I loosened the ties of my tunic. Immediately, I felt a rush of cool air as the fabric slackened around my shoulders and my wings came free. The purple petals unfurled from their cramped captivity. Iridescent veins shimmered within the delicate membrane, catching the light as they flexed, refracting hues of violet, indigo, and faint traces of gold. The edges curled slightly, soft as silk but edged with the strength of spun steel. As they extended fully, the ache in my shoulders ease and my brain cleared.

A faint sound at the window called to my attention. The sound was followed by a smell on the wind. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I turned, my needle poised like a weapon. Much good that would do against anything but a beetle.

The window creaked open. The night air rushed in, cold and sharp. A figure climbed through, moving with the calculated ease of a predator.

Jorge landed silently, his dark eyes locking on mine. His mechanical hand gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The hum of his enhancements filled the room with a low, ominous whir.

“I knew it wasn’t you.” His voice was low and dangerous. "Where is she?"

Before I could ask what he meant, a deafening roar shattered the silence, shaking the walls. My heart leapt into my throat as Jorge spun toward the sound. His hand turned into a blade that unfolded from his arm.

The next moment, he was yanked back toward the window, a massive clawed hand gripping the back of his coat as another roar tore through the night.