I step closer, drawn by the steel in her voice. "And then?"
"Strike fear into everyone present. Declare the ceremony void." She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze without flinching. "Make it clear that defiance will mean death."
The command settles into my bones like molten metal finding its mold. Every fiber of my being thrums with anticipation at the thought of unleashing myself upon that gathering. Yet something in her expression gives me pause.
"Why do you not command me to slaughter Bram now?" I study her face, searching for weakness or hesitation. "I would do it without hesitation. One word from you, and his blood will water this earth."
For a moment, something fragile flickers across her features—grief, perhaps, or the ghost of a gentler world. When she speaks, her voice is laden with hard-won wisdom.
"Killing them all is not what my father would have wanted."
The answer stops me cold. Not fear of consequences or concern for her safety, but loyalty to a dead man's memory. The complexity of her moral landscape fascinates and frustrates me in equal measure. Most who summon my kind seek simple solutions—death, destruction, the elimination of obstacles through violence.
She seeks justice.
I regard her in silence, cataloging the set of her shoulders, the unwavering steadiness of her breathing. This woman who bound me to her will continues to surprise me at every turn. Lessermortals would demand blood for blood, vengeance served hot and immediate.
She chooses precision over carnage.
"Very well." The acceptance flows from me without argument or negotiation. Her command becomes law, binding itself to my essence with threads of silver fire. "It will be as you wish."
I step closer, close enough to catch the jasmine scent that clings to her skin. Close enough to see the faint shimmer of power that dances in her eyes when she invokes her will.
"No one will touch you again."
The promise emerges as both vow and threat, carrying the weight of every protective instinct she's awakened in me. Tomorrow, I will give them theater. I will give them terror. I will remind them why mortals once whispered my name in darkened corners.
But tonight, I dissolve back into shadow, already calculating the precise choreography of fear I'll orchestrate on that dais.
31
ILYRA
The invasion begins before dawn.
They descend upon my room like locusts—three women I've never seen before carrying baskets of powders, oils, and instruments that gleam in the lamplight. Vaelra follows behind them, directing the assault with military precision.
"Hair first," she commands, pointing to the eldest woman who immediately begins unpinning my simple braid. "Then the face. The dress comes last—we cannot risk staining it."
I sit motionless on the wooden stool they've positioned before the mirror, watching my reflection disappear beneath layers of artifice. The eldest woman—Marta, Vaelra calls her—works my hair with practiced efficiency, sectioning and curling until it resembles nothing I recognize.
"Such lovely texture," Marta murmurs, winding a strand around heated iron. "Lord Hethryn will be pleased with the volume."
The casual reference to Bram's preferences makes my stomach clench, but I keep my expression neutral. In the mirror, I watch steam rise from my hair as each curl takes shape.
The second woman approaches with a palette of cosmetics that could stock a merchant's stall. Rouge, kohl, powders in shades from pearl to rose—she surveys my face like an artist contemplating a blank canvas.
"The complexion needs brightening," she announces, dabbing white powder across my cheekbones. "Dark elves prefer their companions fair."
"Not too much," Vaelra interjects sharply. "She should look enhanced, not painted."
The powder sits heavy on my skin, each brush stroke erasing another piece of myself. When she moves to my eyes, outlining them in dark kohl that makes them appear larger, more doll-like, I focus on breathing steadily.
This is temporary,I remind myself.By tonight, this charade ends.
Mariselle drifts into the room carrying a cup of tea, her gray eyes bright with anticipation. She's dressed in her finest gown—pale blue silk that complements her chestnut hair—clearly expecting to bask in reflected glory.
"The dress will look better in Bram's chambers," she says, settling onto my bed to watch the proceedings. "All this fuss for a few hours of ceremony."