It was unadorned. No embroidery. No jewels. Nothing to soften the severity of its orcish lines.
And unmistakably orcish it was. Not a stitch of Maidan craft to be found.
Her stomach twisted. Of course. This wasn't just clothing. It was a symbol. His claim, draped across her shoulders.
Bastard.
But what choice did she have? To refuse and remain in a nightgown—his shirt still clinging to her, smelling of him? To appear before him undignified, diminished?
Never.
With tight fingers, she lifted the dress over her head and pulled it down, fastening the ties one by one. The velvet fell heavy and sure against her frame, swallowing her in its alien elegance.
It fit. Perfectly.
There were no shoes.
Her gaze swept the bench, then the floor, searching for slippers, boots, anything. But there was nothing.
Barefoot.
Her jaw tightened. Was that deliberate? Another subtle reminder of her captivity, a quiet demand for submission disguised as practicality? A queen without shoes, silent in her steps, humbled in an orc stronghold.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
But the velvet hem brushed the ground when she stood. At least the dress was long enough to conceal her feet, to hide the indignity. If he thought she would appear before him looking stripped of dignity, he would be disappointed.
She drew a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders. The gown was heavy, alien, undeniably orcish—but it fit her. And if she must wear it, she would wear it with the bearing of a queen, not a captive.
Dressed in this strange, flowing, orcish garment, she went outside, into the sunshine, where she found Rakhal leaning against the weathered tree.
"It suits you," he said, sounding a little too pleased with himself.
And she hated that she felt a sliver of satisfaction at the fact that he was pleased.
"It'll do for now." She made a point of acting unimpressed. "So, what now?"
He looked her up and down, slowly, infuriatingly.
His eyes darkened.
The shadows danced around his feet.
"You will do," he said slowly, turning her own words back at her. "Far better than I'd expected."
"Expected?" A harsh, derisive laugh escaped her. "One shouldn't make plans based on expectations. I trust you have a coherent plan for entering Istrial, orc, because the entire city will be up in arms, and my mages won't hesitate to incinerate any enemy who dares approach the gates."
She already knew his plan probably involved displaying her, using her as a hostage to gain entrance… and agreement.
Rakhal said nothing. He just moved forward, peeling himself away from the tree with uncanny grace, disappearing into the bathing chamber.
He emerged moments later, with something in his hand…
The comb.
Intricately carved from bone, gleaming in the sunlight.
She'd forgotten about it. Forgotten to comb her hair before she stalked outside.
