They do not let me linger after the meal.

  The last echoes of cutlery and low conversation still ring in my ears when the chair is pulled back behind me. I rise on instinct, hands folding together at my waist, the way I was taught. The guards are already there—two of them—waiting just beyond the reach of the table’s warmth.

  “Come,” one says.

  No explanation. No courtesy.

  I glance once toward the high table. The queen’s attention has already drifted elsewhere. The king speaks quietly to someone at his side. Valorn does not look at me at all.

  I am dismissed.

  The corridor is colder than the hall we left behind.

  The doors shut with a sound that feels final, and the warmth, the light, the murmured voices are gone at once. Stone stretches ahead of us, high and narrow, torches set far apart so shadows gather thick between them. Two guards walk on either side of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of their armor through the air.

  My hands are clasped tight in front of me. I realize dimly that I am still walking the way I was taught—head lowered, steps measured, eyes forward. The habits of the underground cling to me.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  My voice echoes faintly. Too loud. Too exposed.

  “Your quarters,” one of them says.

  The word lands wrong. I turn my head slightly. “My… quarters? I thought—”

  “Keep walking.”

  I do.

  My steps echo too loudly. I hate that. Underground, sound was absorbed by stone and ash. Here it carries. Here it betrays me. Servants pause as we pass, pressing themselves against the walls. One of them looks at me openly, curiosity naked on her face, before another hisses something under her breath and pulls her away.

  I pause at the uncertainty - of what is to come.

  “How long will I be there?” I ask.

  “For the night.”

  “And after that?”

  No answer.

  The silence stretches, thick and deliberate. Panic begins to creep in—not sharp yet, not screaming, just a low pressure behind my ribs. I try to breathe through it. Slow. Controlled. Like prayer.

  How did this happen?

  The thought loops, frantic. This morning I knew who I was. I knew what my hands were for. I knew the sound of the bell that ruled my days. I had believed—foolishly—that my life would end beneath the ground, quiet and unseen.

  I miss it.

  The realization hits so hard it steals my breath. I miss the cold stone benches. The weight of my robes. The way my body disappeared beneath layers of wool and duty. I would give anything—anything—to be back there, aching and anonymous, instead of here, exposed to a world that watches me too closely.

  My stomach twists as we continue. We pass alcoves and archways, servants pressed back against the walls as we move through. A woman glances at me and then quickly looks away, as if afraid of being caught staring.

  I want to ask a hundred questions. I want to ask what I did wrong. I want to ask what I am supposed to do next. Mostly, I want someone to tell me what is expected of me, so I can survive it.

  How did I get here?

  We stop.

  A tall door stands before us. One guard opens it and gestures me inside.

  “This is where you will stay,” he says.

  “Stay?” I ask. “Until when?”

  He does not answer. The door closes behind me, the lock sliding home with quiet precision.

  The room is enormous. Beautiful. Empty in a way that feels intentional. Pale linens stretch smooth across a wide bed. Dark wood furniture lines the walls. No personal touches. No warmth. It feels less like a guest room and more like a waiting chamber.

  My chest tightens. My pulse thunders in my ears.

  I turn toward the washroom because stillness feels dangerous. The black stone tiles gleam. The basin is already filled, steam curling faintly upward. Someone prepared this for me.

  The thought makes my stomach churn.

  I undress and lower myself into the bath. The water is warm, but my body refuses to accept it. My heart keeps racing. My hands tremble where they rest on the edge of the basin. I press my forehead against the stone and squeeze my eyes shut.

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  For a moment, I think it might help.

  It doesn’t.

  My heart keeps racing. My breath catches halfway in, refusing to settle. I press my palms to the edge of the basin and bow my head, staring at the rippling surface.

  What happened?

  The answer comes unbidden, sharp and awful.

  Valorn happened.

  Understanding spreads slowly, like something poisonous dissolving in my blood. He never looked at me with concern. He looked at me with calculation. I was never under his protection—I was under his control.

  A gift.

  The thought makes my throat tighten. A gift to be offered up, wrapped in obedience and silence, for the king’s favor. For the family’s amusement.

  Tonight, I realize, I am not a guest.

  I am entertainment.

  The room feels suddenly too small. I rise from the bath too quickly, water sloshing over the edge, skin prickling with cold. I wrap myself in a towel and stumble back into the chamber, breaths coming shallow and uneven.

  Then I see the candles.

  They sit forgotten in the corner, unused.

  My hands shake as I gather them and sink to the floor, knees drawn up, towel clutched tight around my body. I strike a flame. Then another. Then another.

  The scent of wax and smoke fills the air.

  It breaks me.

  For a moment, I am underground again. Stone pressing close. Incense thick in the air. Prayers murmured in the dark. Fear contained, structured, survivable. I rock slightly as I breathe it in, forcing my pulse to slow, grounding myself in the flicker of candlelight.

  I don’t know how much time passes. Minutes. Hours. The day feels stretched thin, warped, as if it never properly ended. I cannot tell if the sun has moved, or if I have.

  I don’t hear the door open.

  “Vayra?”

  I gasp sharply and look up.

  The princess stands in the doorway.

  She is radiant in a way that feels manufactured up close, like something made to be admired rather than lived in. Her eyes are the same icy blue as the rest of them—too clear, too exact, catching the candlelight without softening. Her hair is pale gold, a fall of carefully kept curls that frame her face like a crown, every strand where it should be.

  She looks no older than I am, no more than nineteen sun-turns carved into her skin, yet there is nothing unfinished about her. She wears deep red, almost black, the fabric clinging to her small, perfect frame like a doll dressed for ceremony, flame caught and shaped, never allowed to burn.

  “Oh,” she says, smiling. “There you are.”

  She steps inside, and two women follow her. They do not speak. They do not look at me.

  My heart starts racing again.

  “What’s happening?” I ask. “Why am I here?”

  “We’re getting you ready,” the princess says, her voice light, almost pleased, as if she’s explaining something simple. “Mother decided it shouldn’t wait. I’ve never seen her so… efficient.”

  She tilts her head, studying me with open, unguarded interest, like a child examining something new. “She was very happy,” Seren adds. “Mother doesn’t like when things take too long.”

  My breath stutters. “Ready for what?” I ask. “Happy about what?” The words come apart as I say them. “What do you want me to do?”

  “For tonight,” she answers gently. “For you,” she says again, smiling.

  My knees threaten to give, and I lock them before she can see.

  The women reach for me, lifting me gently but firmly from the floor and guiding me toward the mirror in the corner.

  They place me before it. I barely recognize the reflection—wide eyes, damp hair clinging to my shoulders, candlelight trembling across bare skin.

  “Mother really outdid herself,” the princess continues. “Everyone’s excited. The priestess arrived early, and the guests—oh, you should have seen the courtyard.”

  “Please,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” the princess says, her smile never faltering. “The priestess will explain everything. She always does.” Her eyes brighten a little. “She likes to make a spectacle of it. She begins with the old stories, the ones everyone already knows, and pretends we’re hearing them for the first time.”

  The towel is taken from me.

  Cold air rushes over my skin. Instinctively, I try to cover myself, arms folding inward, but hands stop me.

  “We’re all girls here,” Seren says softly, her fingers closing around my arm. “There’s no need to hide. There’s no shame in a body—especially not yours.”

  Her smile widens just a fraction. “We need to make you beautiful.”

  They dress me in black.

  The fabric clings everywhere my robes once concealed. No sleeves. A deep neckline that bares more of me than I have ever shown. Long slits that reveal my legs with every movement. I feel exposed, stripped of the comfort I once found in layers of wool and anonymity.

  The uniform Valorn gave me already made me feel naked.

  This is worse.

  They braid half my hair, leaving the rest to fall in dark curls down my back. Something cool and smoky is smudged around my eyes—one ice-blue, one ember-bright—darkening the skin until the contrast is sharpened on purpose, exaggerated and deliberate, as if my mismatched gaze is something to be shown off, turned into a spectacle, until it feels less like adornment and more like quiet mockery.

  When they step back and I finally look at myself, my breath catches.

  I am polished into something meant to be admired, and the realization leaves me hollow rather than proud. Every line of the dress, every careful touch of paint and braid, has stripped away whatever armor I once had, until I stand there exposed and arranged, less a person than a thing prepared for display. I see it clearly in the mirror now—not elegance, but intention, the way prey is handled gently before being brought into the open, dressed not to protect it, but to ensure it is seen.

  I look beautiful.

  And utterly helpless.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask quietly. “What is my role?”

  The princess laughs softly, as if I’ve said something endearing. “You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “That’s the best part.”

  Her gaze lingers on my face, lingering long enough that I know she can see the fear settling in me. Then she tilts her head, smile returning, untroubled. “Roles come later,” she adds lightly. “For now, you’re only meant to be here.”

  She takes my hands, her grip warm and steady. “Tonight is for you.”

  “For me?” My voice barely carries.

  “You’ll enjoy at least the first part of the show,” she says. “I promise.”

  Still holding my hands, squeezing them warmly, she continues. “I’ll be there, Vayra. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay.”

  Her smile is certain.

  “You’ll survive.”

  Then she turns and leaves, the women following her without a word. Leaving me standing there alone, dressed and arranged like a puppet for their upcoming parade.

  The door closes.

  I stand there, candlelight trembling across the walls, my reflection staring back at me like something wrapped and offered.

  This is it.

  I have no choice.

  If they want a show—

  I will give them one.