I woke to silence and pain.
Not the sharp, blinding kind—but the dull, pulsing sort that settles into bone and muscle like an old memory. My ribs ached. My shoulder throbbed. Every breath reminded me just how thoroughly Vaelith had thrown me around the day before.
I stayed still for a moment, head buried in the blankets. It didn't help much. The ache was everywhere. A slow, bruising reminder of how unprepared I really was.
Eventually, I pushed myself upright with a groan. My legs weren't happy about it. Neither were my arms. My hair stuck to the side of my face, and I couldn't quite tell if it was sweat or dried blood. Probably both.
The room was dim, quiet. My chambers—larger than anything I'd had in my old life—still felt unfamiliar. Like I didn't quite belong here.
My eyes caught something on the desk.
The pendant.
It hadn't moved from where I'd left it, looped neatly on the edge of the wood. Pale ivory twisted around darker bone, worked into a shape I hadn't recognized at first—but the longer I stared, the more familiar it looked. Not in design. In weight.
Lirian had given it to me before I left the fortress. No explanation. Just a quiet look, and a few words: "It will help."
Help with what, exactly?
I hadn't worn it since. Maybe I'd meant to, at some point. Maybe I hadn't. But now, something about it itched at the back of my skull.
You've become something dangerous.
That was what Nari had said. She meant the dragon, of course.
But it wasn't new. Not really.
I'd always been dangerous. It's why people left me alone in the mercenary camps, why captains trusted me with work they wouldn't give to others. Even back then—before the magic, before the change—I knew how to hurt people. Knew I could. That power had felt good. Not noble, not clean—but solid. Real.
Is that part of me really worth remembering?
I pushed the blanket aside and stood, my feet cold against the stone floor. The soreness deepened as I moved—my side flaring with every breath—but I didn't stop. I crossed the room, eyes never leaving the pendant.
It shouldn't have meant anything.
But it did.
I reached out, letting my fingers brush the leather cord. Rough to the touch—worn from handling, but solid. Reliable.
Lirian hadn't said much when he gave it to me. He rarely did. But I remembered the look in his eyes. It wasn't just concern.
It was something else.
Something like… guilt?
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I picked it up.
The moment the cord slipped over my head, I felt it.
A pulse of a heartbeat.
Not through the pendant—through me. Like something deep inside shifted, just a fraction. Like pressure that had been pushing from the inside out had found a way to settle, just slightly.
The ache didn't vanish, but it dulled. Just enough that I noticed her absence.
I frowned, reaching up to touch the pendant where it lay against my collarbone.
What was that?
No answers came. Only a strange steadiness. A quieting.
It disturbed me how much I liked it.
A knock came at the door drawing me away from my thoughts.
Sharp and measured.
I turned, dragging in a slow breath.
Of course.
The door opened without another knock.
Nari stepped inside, her eyes sweeping the room once before settling on me. Or more precisely—on the pendant resting just above my chest.
She didn't speak. Not right away.
Just looked.
It took me a second to realize what had drawn her attention. The cord was longer than I remembered, and the pendant sat lower—resting against skin. Her gaze lingered a moment too long.
I cleared my throat and reached for it, fingers brushing the pendant.
Nari spoke.
"Where did you get that?"
Her voice wasn't sharp, but it was deliberate.
I hesitated. "A friend. Before I came here."
"A friend?" she echoed. Her tone didn't change, but something in her posture shifted.
"His name's Lirian," I added after a moment. "I'm not sure if he made it or just… held onto it. He gave it to me before I left the fortr...hatchery. Said it would help."
Nari was quiet again.
Then: "You should keep it hidden."
I blinked. "Why?"
"It's clearly of elven origin. The craftsmanship, the materials—it's not something made here."
I frowned. "So?"
She folded her hands in front of her. "The elves have… fallen from favor. Especially among those close to the Empress. You'd do well not to wear their work openly."
I stared at her, unsure how to respond. There was no accusation in her voice—just fact. Cold, measured fact.
I let go of the cord and slowly tucked the pendant beneath the fabric of my tunic. It lay flat against my skin, warm now. Familiar.
Nari watched me finish, then gave the faintest nod.
She watched me finish, then glanced once toward the window—measuring time, or maybe mood. "We'll begin your lesson shortly," she said, as if nothing more needed to be said.
I sighed and gave her a look. "Sounds fun."
Her gaze flicked back to me. "Sarcasm is a poor companion to noble instruction."
I stared at her.
She tilted her head, expression unreadable. "It's also a mark of common upbringing."
I scoffed—quietly.
"I didn't grow up here," I muttered.
Nari gave a faint nod, almost like she'd expected the answer.
"I know," she said. "Which is why I've arranged help."
There was a knock. Two short raps.
Nari stepped aside as the door opened and a pair of attendants stepped in—young women dressed in simple robes, their hair bound neatly. They moved without hesitation, their eyes respectfully lowered, their presence practiced. Polished.
I tensed.
They didn't ask questions. Just moved toward the wardrobe and began laying things out—layered silks, light tunics, and something that looked far more complicated than it had any right to be.
Nari turned to me. "You'll need assistance. Especially with... layering."
The pause wasn't long. But it was pointed.
I grunted and glanced away. "I can dress myself."
"I've seen how you tie a sash," she said. "I don't trust your definition of appropriate."
The attendants waited. One held something pale and lacy in her hands. Not quite cloth. Not armor.
Not anything I'd ever worn before.
I stared at it.
Seriously?
The younger of the two offered a gentle smile and stepped forward with it—hands careful, like she expected me to flinch.
She wasn't wrong.
They moved around me with practiced rhythm, guiding without speaking. I let them. Sort of.
The garment wasn't painful, but it was... tight. Restrictive in a way I didn't understand. Fabric pressed where I wasn't used to being touched. The straps dragged across skin that felt too soft. Too exposed.
When they adjusted the clasp at my back, I twitched.
The robe followed, light and formal. It slipped over my shoulders like a weightless net, brushing along curves I still wasn't used to. The pendant settled back into place above it all—resting over the fabric this time, not against skin.
The attendants stepped back, gave a small bow, and left without a word.
The silence they left behind was louder than their presence.
I didn't look at Nari.
She didn't gloat. Didn't say I told you so. She only stepped closer and examined the front of my robe with an impassive eye.
"Better," she said.
I crossed my arms, and immediately regretted it.
A soft, feline chrrk escaped her throat.
It wasn't loud. Barely a sound at all.
But it startled me.
Nari stepped forward without hesitation. Her hands closed around my wrists with surprising speed—firm, unyielding—and shoved my arms down to my sides.
I blinked.
She held my gaze for a moment longer, then released me.
"Posture reflects poise," she said. "Slouched shoulders invite lesser treatment."
I scowled, though I didn't cross my arms again.
"Doesn't feel like it matters."
"It does," she replied. "Especially here."
She turned and gestured toward the door. "Walk with me."
I didn't move at first. Every part of me wanted to argue, to crawl back into bed and bury myself in something warm and wordless—but I didn't. I followed, putting the pendant underneath the cloth.
My legs still ached. My ribs protested every breath. But Nari didn't slow, and I didn't ask her to.
We stepped out into the corridor. The air felt colder here, brushing against my skin in places that were still sore. I adjusted the robe slightly, pulling the front tighter.
Nari said nothing for the first few steps.
Then, lightly: "Today's lesson will be etiquette."
I sighed again, louder this time. "That sounds... fun."
Nari didn't comment but I noticed her ear twitch.
We walked in silence through the halls, my steps quiet against the stone, hers even quieter. Every few turns she brought a subtle correction—my shoulders too low, my steps too wide, the way I held my arms too stiff.
Is it going to be like this the entire time?!
And when she stopped walking, I nearly ran into her.
"This way."
She turned and stepped through a narrow archway into a smaller chamber—quiet, finely decorated, and full of light. Slanted beams shone through high windows, catching dust in the air. A low platform sat at the center of the room, surrounded by woven mats. Scrolls were arranged across a polished table.
I stepped inside after her, slower than I meant to. The robe pulled against my shoulders wrong, and I adjusted it for the third time since we left the room.
Nari glanced back. Just once.
Then she motioned toward the mat closest to the platform. "Sit."
I groaned under my breath and lowered myself—awkwardly—until I was seated, legs folded as best I could manage. The fabric bunched. My ribs complained. My hips felt like they were sitting wrong again, and I shifted twice before settling. It still didn't feel right.
Nari sat across from me in a single motion. Like she weighed nothing.
She poured two cups of tea from a pot that had been set before we arrived. Steam curled between us, catching in the light.
"Tea?" I asked flatly.
Nari didn't answer right away. She offered the cup without ceremony, her movements precise as ever.
I took it with both hands—hesitated a second too long before drinking. It wasn't hot enough to burn, but the warmth still caught me off guard.
I hated how steady it made me feel.
Nari watched me over the rim of her cup.
"You were tense when they dressed you."
No point denying it.
"I'm not used to it," I muttered.
Nari gave a small, acknowledging nod. "You will be. Or at least, you will learn to seem like you are."
She reached across the space between us, her fingers brushing my wrist. She didn't ask. Just gently moved my hands into a better position around the cup—thumbs aligned, fingers curved slightly.
"For now, pretend."
I frowned, but I didn't pull away.
The warmth of the tea soaked into my palms. I sat a little straighter without thinking.
Nari didn't return to her place immediately. She shifted her weight and reached to adjust the fall of my robe where it had bunched near my waist.
"You're being watched," she said, still not quite looking at me. "Even if no one is here."
I swallowed. "Watched by who?"
"Everyone," she said, finally stepping back. "Servants. Courtiers. Heirs. Enemies."
Her eyes flicked toward mine.
"And possibly allies."
The pendant pressed faintly against my chest again, a quiet reminder.
I shifted under her gaze. The warmth from the tea didn't help this time.
Nari's expression didn't change. Not exactly. But the line of her shoulders softened, just a hair. Enough to notice if you were looking.
"They've told you very little," she said. "About what's expected of you."
I blinked. "No. They haven't."
She nodded like she'd already assumed as much.
"Then I'll tell you what I can."
I sat straighter despite myself.
"You are not just a daughter of the Empress," Nari continued. "You are a figure now. A presence. Perhaps even a symbol. You will be called many things. Expected to be more."
I opened my mouth, then shut it. She wasn't wrong. But she wasn't clear either.
Nari watched me over the rim of her cup.
"Learning our customs will shield you from embarrassment," she said. "From insult. But more than that—it will protect you from things you haven't thought about yet."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Politics," she said. "Assumptions."
A pause.
"Men."
That word hung in the air between us like a sword suspended by thread.
I stared at her, caught between disbelief and confusion. "Men?"
She didn't flinch. "You haven't interacted with many since your change, have you?"
"No," I said. "But I can handle myself."
The words came out harder than I intended.
Nari nodded slowly. "I believe you. But the danger doesn't always come with blades."
I looked away.
Her voice didn't sharpen. It stayed calm. Measured. "You've changed. Your appearance. Your presence. Your scent."
That last word made my spine stiffen.
"You will attract attention," she said plainly. "Wanted or not."
I hated how my thoughts flashed to the way her eyes had lingered on the pendant earlier. How my fingers had hovered near it. How aware I'd become of where it rested—of what it framed.
"I'm not interested in that," I muttered.
"That may not matter," Nari said gently.
I didn't answer.
What was I supposed to say? That I hadn't noticed the way eyes lingered longer than they used to? That I caught the stares, the hesitations? That part of me hated it—and another part didn't know how to feel at all?
Nari didn't press. She sipped her tea.
I sipped mine.
The silence stretched long enough for me to start thinking again. About what Lirian would say if he saw me now. About how I used to hold myself—broad-shouldered and sharp-edged, every movement an invitation to back off.
Now?
Now I wasn't sure what I was inviting.
Nari broke the quiet first.
"There's a luncheon," she said. "This afternoon. The heirs will attend."
I blinked. "And?"
"You will be there."
I nearly choked on the tea. "Why?"
"Because you've been noticed," Nari said calmly. "And because Vaelith made the request personally."
I stiffened.
She set her cup down with precision. "She believes this is the best path forward."
"I thought you were the one teaching me."
"I am." Nari's tone didn't change but her pupils changed slightly.
If I didn't know any better I'd assume she was angry.
"But Vaelith holds authority. This is her way of including you."
That didn't sit right. "Including me in what?"
Nari's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "We'll see."