Page 87 of Embers of Ruin

Mazelle smooths one sleeve of the gown with careful fingers. “I will assist you myself for this occasion.”

I push away from the window, irritation rising to meet the uncomfortable twist low in my stomach. “Why does he want me there?”

“Because he said so, Lady Tarethyn.”

“That’s not a reason. Have I not suffered enough?”

“It is reason enough, when spoken by a king.”

I let out a sharp and humorless laugh. “You all say things like that as if they’re supposed to impress me.”

“No,” Mazelle says, finally looking up at me. “I say things like this because you have not yet understood where you are... or your place on this continent.”

The words land hard, and I’m beginning to suspect she’s hinting at more than my refusal to attend a formal dinner. She’s talking about whatever confusing, exhausting relationship I have with the king.

I fold my arms, refusing to back down. “I understand as much as I need to.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You understand Elvora. You understand stories told by people who did not know enough to survive outside their own borders. You do not understand Andell.”

The room stills and for a moment, I can’t think of a single clever thing to say, which is perhaps the rudest thing Mazelle has done yet.

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the sharpness in her eyes grows more precise. “Tonight, you will listen more than you speak.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“I am aware. It was a hope, not an expectation.”

I almost smile. Almost. But then my gaze drops to the gown, and any trace of amusement fades.

It’s beautiful. The color suits my complexion, and will make my silver hair seem brighter. Am I supposed to pretend to be Thorin’s mistress tonight? What will he introduce me as? What role am I meant to play in all of this?

“I’m not wearing that gown. Leathers will do just fine.”

“You are wearing this, Lyra. It is not optional.”

“It looks expensive.”

“It is.”

“I may ruin it.”

“You may try.”

I glare at her. “You’re enjoying this. Why do you always enjoy my misery?”

“Enjoyment would imply pleasure, Lady Tarethyn,” Mazelle says evenly. “I assure you, this is endurance.”

“You have become quite the liar.”

Her mouth twitches for the briefest moment. If I’d blinked, I would’ve missed it.

I count it as a victory.

In the end, I wear the gown because my other choices are limited to fighting Mazelle physically, which seems unwise after our recent encounter, or attending dinner in my training leathers, which would likely give half the court something to gossip about for the next century. I refuse to be remembered as the feral silver-haired girl who showed up at the king's table dressed for combat.

Mazelle fastens the back of the gown with efficient hands, and I stand before the tall mirror, eyeing myself. The sapphire fabric hugs my slender frame, narrowing at my waist before falling in soft layers to the floor. It accentuates every curve, and I gasp as I turn, admiring how the color complements my bronze skin.

Mazelle gathers the front sections of my hair, weaving them into two delicate braids that loop back from my temples before pinning them in place with small silver combs. The rest she leaves loose, combing the silver waves until they spill down my back, while two soft curls frame my face where the braids begin. She paints a soft crimson tint across my lips before lining my eyes with kohl, the dark pigment making my honey-colored eyes seem brighter.