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I gape at the mansion before me. Or better said, a palace!

Gleaming white marble, columns that could support a small mountain, and a staircase wider than most roads.

Stone lions flank the entrance, looking less like guardians and more like they’re judging my decidedly un-royal attire.

Lush gardens surround the place, overflowing with flowers I can’t even name, and a fountain sparkles under the moonlight, making the whole scene look opulent.

“Uh… where are we?” I ask Zanyar, my voice a little higher than usual.

We’d just spent the last hour trekking halfway across the city, a journey filled by the lingering bitterness at my interaction with Darian and Zanyar’s unnerving silence, which, honestly, was probably a blessing. I needed time to cool down.

Darian’s shocked, wounded face kept flashing in my mind, making my stomach roil with guilt. I know he was only trying to protect me when he excluded me from their plans to break into the Martyshyar wing, so why did I lash out with such hurtful words?

I didn’t appreciate Darian preempting my choice in the matter rather than letting me make it myself, but I hadn’t realized how deeply it affected me until I snapped at him.

But now that we stand before this monument to excessive wealth, I suddenly remember that we are on a mission. We’re not here for a scenic tour of Shemiran’s humble abodes.

“An Aramisi merchant’s home,” Zanyar replies. “He’s taking us to a gathering tonight. We’ll be attending as his guests—two Aramisi travelers seeking fortune in Shemiran.”

“This is a merchant’s house?” I squeak, my voice cracking slightly. “This looks like a High Lord’s castle! What does he sell, dragons?”

“Lord Palewyne’s family were minor lords in eastern Aramis who moved here for the promise of great wealth, which they’ve achieved.”

The grand doors of the mansion swing open before I can respond, revealing a portly figure standing at the entrance.

Dressed in the finest Aramisi silks, his pale hair contrasts with his ruddy complexion as he greets us with a broad smile.

He rushes down the stairs to meet Zanyar and bows, saying, “Welcome, my lord!”

“I am no lord,” Zanyar replies curtly. “Just an Ahira, Lord Palewyne.”

“A wound that Aramis will forever bear,” Palewyne says, bowing again. “The finest High Lord we were denied.”

I steal a glance at Zanyar. His face is a blank mask, as always. But his eyes … for the briefest of moments, they betray him. I see a flicker of something raw, something resembling a weight he’s carried, hidden, for far too long.

Whatever Lord Palewyne’s words have touched, he quickly buries it, smoothing his expression to that familiar wall of practiced composure.

It is the same front I’ve worn myself countless times—the instinctive flinch of someone who’s learned through bitter experience how to suppress emotion, to guard against the world, to hide any hint of weakness beneath a veneer of control.

And in that recognition, a deep and unexpected sense of empathy wells up within me.

Palewyne turns to me. “I didn’t realize you would have company.”

“Plans change,” Zanyar says. “When do we need to leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready, I have a carriage waiting,” Palewyne says as he guides us up the stairs and into the mansion’s opulent interior. The foyer is a stunning hall, its soaring ceiling supported by marble columns adorned with gold leaf .

Lord Palewyne gestures toward two servants—a man and a woman—standing at the foot of the stairs. “They’ll see to your attire. Join me outside in half an hour. What names shall I call you when we meet Bakewell?”

“Lancel Lefford,” Zanyar declares, “a lordling of Banefort seeking his fortune in trade.” His eyes flick to me in silent contemplation before he adds, “And his wife, Leonor Lefford.”

Before I can protest the absurdity of posing as nobility, let alone as the wife of Zanyar Zareen, the servants guide us up the grand staircase. At the top, the maid points me to the left while the manservant leads Zanyar to the right.

The maid, round and cheerful, leads me into a room so magnificent it could accommodate a queen.

As the door slowly opens, my eyes widen in awe.

The chamber is filled with silks and satins glimmering in every corner, with gowns of every style and hue imaginable twinkling in the gentle glow of a crystal chandelier.

It is a maiden’s fantasy, a visual delight, and I, dressed in my simple gray, feel as out of place as a Gajari at a royal ball.

“Is there a dress that you’d find to your liking, my Lady?” the maid inquires.

Immediately, a wave of self-consciousness washes over me.

I have never worn a dress in my life, save for the gray, long-sleeved, and long-collared kirtle of Firelands.

The thought of appearing before Zanyar in such finery makes me wish to face a Nohvan instead; at least with a Nohvan, I know what to expect.

“These gowns… they’re too lavish for a lordling’s wife,” I say. “And I am no lady.”

The maid chuckles. “Fear not, my lady. We shall find something that suits you perfectly.”

The maid walks to a corner and carefully selects a simple yet elegant red dress. Delicate golden embroidery adorns the bodice and hem, adding just the right touch of subtle luxury. It’s beautiful without being too extravagant.

“Please try it on, my lady,” the maid offers, gesturing to a dressing screen.

Behind the screen, I carefully shed my warrior’s attire. On a shelf, I find a water basin and a cloth. I use the cloth to cleanse my skin, and the fragrant soap leaves me feeling refreshed and smelling sweet.

As I slip the dress over my head, the soft silk cascades down my body.

It is a sensation so foreign and luxurious that it almost makes me shiver.

The dress fits me perfectly, hugging my slight curves in a flattering and unfamiliar way.

I have never worn anything so smooth and delicate, and the feeling of the fabric against my skin is almost intoxicating.

Before self-consciousness can strike me, I step out from behind the partition, excited to see myself in the mirror.

But the maid stops me before I can take a step.

“You look like a proper lady. Now, let’s have you seated, and I’ll do your hair.”

She guides me to a nearby chair, and her gentle hands untie the band holding my hair, freeing a cascade of my black locks to tumble down my back.

“Your hair has a beautiful, untamed wave,” the maid exclaims, her fingers weaving through my strands. “A few touches, and you’ll be ready to meet your lord husband.”

Husband! The word rings in my ear as I suppress a chuckle. Zanyar Zareen, my pretend husband. The very thought would have been a fever dream back in Firelands. What has my life become?

The maid’s fingers dance through my hair, braiding and pinning the raven strands.

She then moves to my face, moistening my skin with a strange oil from a bottle.

She applies a touch of rouge to color my cheeks and a hint of red lip balm to stain my lips.

Finally, she wields a black powder, lining my eyes with a dramatic sweep.

When she is finally finished, the maid leads me to a standing mirror. For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

The woman in the mirror is elegant, refined, almost regal.

Her hair, no longer a simple, practical style, is a masterpiece: a cascade of dark waves tumbling down her back, interwoven with a delicate braid that crowns her head.

A few small gold ornaments—stars and crescent moons—are nestled within the waves, shimmering like captured fireflies against the inky blackness of her hair .

Her skin glows with a soft radiance. And her eyes… her eyes sparkle, framed by a dramatic sweep of black liner that makes their dark depths appear vibrant, almost mysterious. A subtle flush of color graces her cheeks and lips, a shade that’s both naturally enhancing and undeniably alluring.

And then, the gown. A vibrant, unapologetic red, a color that seems to glow against my dark hair and luminous skin.

It’s a perfect match as if the color had been created for me.

The fabric itself is a marvel, draping effortlessly from my shoulders, clinging to the curves of my body, and accentuating my figure in a way that’s both subtly sensual and breathtakingly elegant.

Every movement creates a mesmerizing play of light and shadow, a shimmer and sparkle that makes me feel… powerful. Confident…

Is that woman me? I had never seen myself like this before, and I never imagined that I could look so…

beautiful. A surge of excitement courses through my veins.

Perhaps this disguise is more than just a means to an end.

Perhaps it’s a chance to look at myself with new eyes, even if it’s only temporary.

“You look majestic, my lady,” the maid says with genuine admiration in her voice.

“Thanks to your efforts.” I turn to her. “And I’m no lady.” I smile at her.

The approval from the maid does little to calm the storm of nerves swirling inside me as I step out of the room. The thought of facing Zanyar in this guise makes me want to run away to the next province, but I push it down.

It’s just a disguise, nothing more. Why shouldn’t I look my best for once? It’s likely one of the last times I’ll see Zanyar before our paths diverge after these trials. What do I care if he thinks I’m false? For once, I feel beautiful, and that is enough.

I spot Zanyar waiting at the top of the stairs, looking as handsome as ever in a tailored black and gold silk doublet that fits snugly over his broad shoulders and fitted breeches that highlight his strong legs.

Polished leather boots complete the look.

His clothing exudes wealth and authority, yet he carries it with a nonchalant ease that only a High Lord’s son can manage .

When our eyes meet, it’s more than a glance; it’s a collision.

His gaze doesn’t just lock onto mine; it sears, holding for a beat that stretches into more, charged and heavy, before he deliberately, intoxicatingly sweeps his eyes over my form.

My breath trapped in my throat, I’m not just wondering what he’s thinking, but feeling the potent weight of his unspoken assessment.

“Is this too lavish for a lordling’s wife?” I blurt out the question.

Zanyar’s eyes sweep over me again, another deliberate, slow appraisal that sends a jolt, not entirely unpleasant, through me.

For an instant, something darkens in the depths of those golden-green eyes—admiration?

Shock? Something else, something I can’t quite decipher—but it’s gone so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it.

He shakes his head with a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and his gaze drops to the floor as if he can’t quite meet my eyes.

I watch him as he visibly swallows; a slight bob of his throat is the only outward sign of any internal emotion.

Then, with a deliberate grace, he extends his arm toward me as a silent offering.

“Shall we?” His voice is a low, steady rumble.

My fingers hesitate for a fraction of a second before I slip my hand into the crook of his arm. Beneath the fine fabric of his sleeve, his muscles are warm and solid. A grounding force that sends another wave of unexpected, liquid heat coiling through me as we descend the stairs.