Cerys stood before the tarnished mirror, candle-flame trembling along the silver trim of her borrowed gown. The bodice hugged the leather corselet beneath, hiding most of the plates but none of their weight. When she breathed in, the fabric made a faint creak that sounded too delicate for battle. She shifted her shoulders, testing reach. Good—she could still draw, still pivot.
Rain clicked against the wagon boards outside, steady and patient. In the cramped space, lamplight painted soft gold over rough timber and the dusting of crushed lavender someone had scattered to mask damp straw. The scent mixed with oil from her greaves, an odd marriage of ballroom and barracks.
Behind her, Serelith's deft fingers moved like spiders weaving silk. She parted the red hair, twisted, pinned, then coiled again. Each loop tightened with a tiny tug that pricked Cerys's scalp—gentle warnings of the thorns Serelith threaded among the strands. Small onyx pins glinted whenever the candle flared.
