Page 34 of Embers of Ruin

Lieutenant Mazelle steps inside with the same precise grace she carried yesterday. Her dark hair is pulled into a severe knot at the base of her neck, not a single strand out of place. Her black uniform is fitted perfectly to her slim figure, the silver crest of the king embroidered over her heart. On anyone else, the uniform might have looked plain. On Mazelle, it looks like a very elegant, very judgmental sort of armor.

Her dark eyes sweep over me, the bed, the untouched tray of food, and finally return to my face.

“You did not eat. The way you came in yesterday, you look like you could use all the nutrition offered to you.”

“Good morning to you too.” I snap back as my brows crease, covering myself with my arms. I’m not covering much, as the only clothing I have was provided by the palace, all lace nightgowns or extravagant gowns. I’m wearing an extremely sheer nightgown and feel overly exposed with Mazelle standing in front of me imposingly.

Her expression doesn’t change and a faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she watches me squirm. Glad to provide your entertainment for the day. I almost say this out loud but catch myself. I’ve said more than enough in the short time I’ve been at the palace.

“You’ll need your strength.”

“For what? Being held captive requires surprisingly little physical effort, Lieutenant.”

“For surviving the palace,” she says casually as she crosses to the armoire, “and for surviving the training His Majesty will require of you.”

Interesting. First I’m a guest, now I’m expected to train. Whatever will they think of next?

“Sounds wonderful.” My flat tone matches the blank expression on my face. She smirks but doesn’t look at me, instead pulling out a gown. At least she’s being useful—my personal Mistress of Wardrobe. I roll my eyes, watching as she walks to the bed and lays a folded gown across the covers. The emerald fabric spills over the fur like running water, smooth and heavy, embroidered with tiny silver threads that catch the dim light. It is beautiful, so naturally, I distrust it. I sigh. Why another gown? What in Illurine’s name do they have planned for me today?

“His Majesty requests your presence,” she says as if reading my thoughts.

My stomach tightens at the mention of the king, though I do my best not to let it show. “Does he request, or does he command?”

Mazelle looks at me for a long moment. I don't think I've seen her wear any expression besides that smug little smirk.

“With His Majesty, the distinction rarely matters.”

“That sounds deeply unhealthy for everyone’s mental health.”

“It sounds efficient, and it is.” She emphasizes every syllable of the last two words. This time, the smirk is gone, replaced by a stern expression. So she does have other facial expressions. Noted.

I plaster on a fake smile, making my voice far more cheerful than I feel. "It sounds like something a tyrant would enjoy."

Her eyes sharpen and she pins me with a death glare. “Careful, Lady Tarethyn.”

Lady. I nearly look behind me to see who she means.

“Don’t call me that. Lyra works just fine.”

“It is how you will be addressed while you are here.”

“But I am not a ‘Lady’. I have no status, so you shouldn’t address me as such.”

“No,” she says, gaze flicking over my tangled hair and bare feet. “That much is painfully evident.”

I should be offended. I am offended. Unfortunately, she is not entirely wrong, which makes it worse.

Mazelle gestures toward the gown. “Dress. I will return in fifteen minutes.”

“You gave me more time yesterday.” I tilt my head to the side, pursing my lips.

“Well Lady Tarethyn, today is a new day. Try to put your best foot forward.”

“That is such a beautiful sentiment, Lieutenant."

“I am not here to charm you. Fifteen minutes.”

“That’s a relief. You’re terrible at it,” I mumble as I brush past her toward the bathing chamber.