Elena didn't notice the blood until she stepped back into Claire's room.
A faint smear along her sleeve. Darker blotches down the front of her blouse where she'd braced the soldier. Dried streaks along her wrists.
She froze. She looked like she'd tried to hug a crime scene.
Claire turned, spotted her instantly, and made a sympathetic sound that belonged in a luxury spa, not a medieval fortress.
"Oh, Elena… you can't go before the council looking like you wrestled a boar."
Elena flushed. "I—I didn't realize—"
"Of course you didn't." Claire touched her arm gently. "You're one of those people who thinks first and cleans later. My brother would combust without people like that."
Elena wasn't sure if that was praise or a gentle warning. The dried blood felt symbolic—a reminder of who she had been in her world… and who she might become here.
Claire squeezed her hands.
"Come. Let's put you in something that honors what you did today, not what it stained."
Elena lifted a hand weakly. "I don't need to stand out—"
Claire snorted softly. "You already do. At least let it be for pleasant reasons."
Fair.
Claire scanned the wardrobe with a general's strategic focus.
"No emerald gown tonight," she muttered. "Tonight requires something memorable. Something that makes them forget every reason they have to whisper."
"They're whispering already?"
"Oh, absolutely," Claire said cheerfully. "You've been here two days. That's practically a century in gossip years."
Before Elena could process that, Claire pulled out a gown that made the air itself pause.
"Elena," she breathed, "this one."
It was midnight blue—so deep it neared black until light crossed the fabric. Silver threads shimmered across it like constellations in motion. The bodice was elegant, the neckline gently shaped, the sleeves sheer and touched with tiny silver beads.
The skirt flowed like silk remembering how to be water.
"Try it," Claire urged.
Elena stepped behind the screen. The dress settled around her like warm breath, not cloth.
When she emerged, Claire gasped.
"Oh. That's rude. You're going to start a diplomatic incident."
Elena blinked. "What?"
"You're breathtaking," Claire said. "It's very disruptive."
Heat crept along Elena's neck. She touched the embroidery—starlight stitched into fabric.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's yours," Claire said simply. "Unworn. Waiting for the right woman. Apparently that was you."
Something tightened in Elena's chest—unexpected, potent.
Claire pulled her to a vanity. "We keep hair soft for council nights. Too severe reads as 'ready to stab someone.' Too casual reads as 'please ignore me.' Balance is key."
Her hands were warm and skilled. Claire twisted the upper half of Elena's hair into a loose knot pinned with silver star-clips, the rest falling in gentle waves.
"There," Claire said. "Elegance without surrender."
Elena stared at her reflection—breathtaking, yes… but also capable. Grounded, somehow, in a world that kept shifting beneath her feet.
Claire squeezed her shoulder. "Ready to face my brother?"
Elena's pulse jumped. "Not really."
"Well," Claire said brightly, opening the door, "too late."
And there he was.
Soren turned at the sound—And stopped.Completely.
It wasn't a subtle pause.It was a the-prince's-brain-has-left-the-building pause.
Elena's face heated. And then she noticed his clothes.
Soren wasn't in armor. Instead, he wore a fitted black tunic of finely woven fabric, embroidered in darker thread along the collar—shadows stitched into cloth. His sleeves tapered sharply, the fabric smooth, austere, devastatingly elegant.
All black. Of course.
As if darkness itself had commissioned his wardrobe.
Her traitorous brain whispered: Yes please.Her dignity hissed: We talked about this.
Claire leaned in. "He does own other colors, you know."
"He does?" Elena whispered.
"Technically," Claire smirked. "But we think black adopted him."
Elena nearly laughed—almost. Because somehow the severity suited him. The refinement. The precision. He looked like a well-dressed threat to national security.
He stepped forward, and the fabric moved with him—quiet, deliberate.
He stopped in front of Elena, his gaze sweeping over her slowly. Thoroughly. The heat in his eyes made her breath falter.
"Claire thought I needed something more… formal," she managed.
Soren exhaled—a quiet, controlled rush that did not sound controlled at all.
"That gown," he said, voice deeper, "was crafted for the highest gatherings."
Her stomach flipped. "I didn't mean to overdo it."
"It is more than enough."
He stepped closer. Not touching—never touching unless he chose to—but the warmth of him reached her first. Her breath hitched.
"You look…" His jaw tightened. "…remarkable."
Elena's brain: Abort mission.Her heart: Absolutely not, this is wonderful.Her dignity: I hate both of you.
Her cheeks warmed.
He leaned in—just slightly—enough for his breath to brush her cheek.But he didn't touch her.
"Stay close to me tonight," he murmured.
"Because of the council?" she whispered.
His gaze dipped—briefly, unmistakably—to her mouth before it returned to her eyes.
"Because," he said quietly, "I prefer to stay close to you."
Her pulse misfired.
Claire cleared her throat loudly. "And with that, let's avoid being late and indecent."
Elena tore her gaze away—barely—and stepped forward. But she felt it:
His attention. Warm. Steady. Focused.
Like a hand pressed between her shoulder blades—a touch he had not given.
Yet.
Elena inhaled slowly.
New plan:Stay calm.Do not sweat through the gown.And under absolutely no circumstances acknowledge the reality that the prince of a foreign realm looks at her like she's both a political problem and his favorite distraction.
Totally doable.
Probably.