The sound of hooves on cobblestone brought Aurora back fully.
The road had changed. The hum of gravel had given way to the sharper rhythm of stone. Outside the window, she saw rooftops and chimneys. People passing. A marketplace in the distance. A town.
Damien glanced out as well, then at her.
"We're stopping here for today," he said.
Aurora blinked. "We're not there yet?"
He shook his head. "Silverwood's still a day's ride from here. But I don't want to rush you. We'll rest, do a bit of shopping, maybe have a proper meal. Take things slow."
She nodded, quiet. The dream still clung to the edges of her thoughts, but the world outside was too present to ignore.
Damien continued, his tone even but light. "There's someone else I'd like you to meet while we're here."
Her shoulders tensed, just slightly.
"He's not like the ones you've met before," Damien added. "His name is Father Eli. A real priest. Old friend of the family."
Aurora didn't answer, but she watched him closely.
"I thought it might be good to have him take a look at you," he said gently. "Just to make sure you're healthy. You seem a little small for your age."
She glanced down at her hands. Her legs. She knew what he meant, and he wasn't wrong. But he hadn't said it like an insult. Just observation. Like noticing the weather.
"Will it hurt?" she asked.
"No," he said. "He's not that kind of priest. Just kind eyes, good hands, and a few too many stories."
She gave a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. Almost.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Outside, voices drifted in — vendors, travelers, horses.
Damien didn't open the door right away. He looked at her, steady.
"You'll tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable?"
She nodded.
"Good."
He reached for the handle and opened the door. The light poured in, brighter than it had been inside the carriage.
Aurora squinted a little but followed him out.
The knights had already dismounted. Two stood nearby, keeping a respectful distance. One of them — the young blond who'd smiled at her earlier — tipped his head slightly when she passed. She didn't meet his eyes.
Damien turned to her.
"First stop — clothing," he said. "You're not wearing another threadbare dress to meet my sons."
Aurora hesitated, then asked, "Will the priest be there?"
"He'll meet us after," Damien said. "Once you're more comfortable."
She nodded again.
Then she followed him down the cobbled street. Not quite side by side. Not quite behind.
Somewhere in between.
The shop sat on a quiet corner, framed in clean stone and ivy that had browned for winter. The windows were spotless. The display was simple: bolts of cloth folded tight, a pair of clean boots, a child-sized coat with neat stitching along the hem.
Tied to the handle, a small placard read:
Reserved.
Aurora stared at it.
Damien held the door open for her. "For us," he said.
She stepped inside.
The shop was warm in a way that didn't just come from the fire. It smelled of lavender and wool and something faintly spiced — cinnamon maybe. The wooden floor had been polished, and the shelves were stocked not with glitter, but with quality. Well-made clothes. Meant to be worn, not shown off.
Behind the front counter stood a woman with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that didn't miss much. She wore no apron, no jewelry. Just confidence and a pin cushion strapped to her wrist like a weapon.
She looked at Aurora. Not unkind. Not soft.
Just measuring.
Like someone studying a pattern and deciding what could be made of it.
Then she gave Damien a nod.
Two women appeared from the back — one young, maybe in her twenties, with warm eyes and curls tucked behind her ears; the other older, wide-shouldered, with laugh lines and steady hands. Neither smiled big. Just enough. Real.
"Right this way, darling," said the older one, voice gentle.
Aurora looked at Damien.
He nodded once. "Go ahead."
She followed the two women through the back curtain. They brought her to a small raised platform, ringed with fabric and soft lamplight. The curtain slid shut behind them.
"You'll want to step out of your dress, love," said the younger one. "We'll be quick."
Aurora hesitated. Her hand hovered near her collar.
The older woman knelt down slightly. "No rush."
There was no pressure in their voices. Just calm. As if this was the most normal thing in the world.
So she nodded. Slow. Her fingers found the frayed buttons.
The dress came off. The chill found her skin, but not before the women did — warm hands, soft as linen. Their touch didn't rush. Didn't flinch.
And when the first of the scars showed — the thin ones across her shoulder, the deeper one on her rib — neither of them said a word.
Not with their mouths. Not with their hands.
They kept going. Measuring. Supporting. Their fingers were warm the whole time.
The older woman's hand brushed her back once as she marked the length of her spine. A pause. Not hesitation. Just care.
When they were finished, they vanished through the curtain and returned with folded fabric.
"Here we go," the younger one said, holding it up. "Let's get you into something decent."
Aurora stepped into it. They helped guide the sleeves over her arms. It was a soft, thick cotton dress in storm-grey. Classy, but simple. No frills. No silly colors. Just clean lines, warm fabric, a small ribbon at the collar.
It fit. Perfectly.
Not too loose. Not stretched. Not patched.
She looked down at it. Touched the hem like it might vanish.
The curtain opened.
Damien stood there, arms at his sides, eyes steady.
He looked her over once. "Better," he said. Not just approving — satisfied.
Aurora didn't smile.
But she didn't hide either.
And behind her, the two women stood watching. Their hands folded, their expressions quiet.
But warm.
Still warm.
Damien looked at Aurora with that same small, proud smile. The kind that didn't show teeth — just calm. The kind that said you're exactly where you should be.
She stood near the fitting platform, still wearing the storm-grey dress. It fit. Not perfectly, but well enough to feel different. Real.
Damien turned back to the shopkeeper and placed a leather pouch on the counter with a soft, deliberate clink.
"She'll need some clothes ready to wear today," he said. "Seven dresses. Three nightgowns. A few sets of pants and shirts — something she can breathe in. Move in."
The shopkeeper nodded, already writing it down.
"Those can be ready-made," Damien added. "For now."
Then his voice shifted — not louder, but clearer. Final.
"For the full order: fourteen dresses. Six nightgowns. Six sets of trousers and shirts. All made to measure. Plus a heavy winter coat, a lighter one for travel, gloves, boots for walking and town, and a satchel of good leather she can carry herself."
Aurora stared at him, her fingers brushing the fabric of the dress she already wore like she was trying to make sure it was still real.
The shopkeeper stopped writing only to glance up, eyes briefly flicking to Aurora. Then she gave Damien a respectful bow.
"Of course, my Lord. The ready-made items will be wrapped by the hour. The tailored order will be completed and delivered to Silverwood within the month."
"Good," Damien said simply.
"Thank you for the trust," she added. "It's an honor."
Damien nodded once. "Make sure they're made to last."
"They will be."
Aurora didn't say anything. She just stood there, watching the quiet efficiency of it all. The way things were chosen for her with care — not pity, not show. Like she was someone who needed to be prepared, not just dressed.
The idea of owning fourteen dresses — her dresses — didn't even fit in her head yet.
But she didn't try to argue.
Not this time.
As they stepped out of the shop, the sun was already softening. It dipped lower behind the rooftops, washing the streets in a golden light. The air smelled faintly of baking bread and chimney smoke.
Aurora walked close beside Damien, her bundle of new clothes tucked against her chest. The fabric was warm from her body, but her arms were tired. Her feet, too. The kind of tired that sinks into your shoulders and makes the world feel just a little too big.
Damien glanced down at her.
"You're worn out."
She tried to hide it. "I'm alright."
He raised an eyebrow. "Can I carry you?"
She blinked at him. No one had ever asked her something like that. Not like it was a choice.
"…Just for a little," she said.
He picked her up like she weighed nothing and settled her easily in his arms. She thought she'd feel embarrassed. But it wasn't like that. It felt... safe. Like her bones could rest, just for now.
"You handled the shop better than most grown men would," he said. "I think you've earned a break."
She gave a quiet hum, maybe even a laugh.
They turned off the main road and into a quieter part of town. The buildings changed here — cleaner lines, taller windows, softer lighting. It was the kind of place where everything smelled like fresh paper and good food.
They stopped in front of a tall building with warm lamps glowing by the door and soft gold letters carved above it. A man at the door opened it without a word.
Inside, the restaurant was quiet, with thick carpets and gold fixtures and a hush that felt intentional. Someone greeted Damien and led them down a hallway past the main dining room, toward a pair of tall wooden doors.
"This is where we're eating?" Aurora asked softly.
He nodded. "Privately."
The hostess opened the door.
The room was small but perfect. Velvet chairs. Polished wood floors. A single table set for three. The windows were curtained, candles flickering in crystal holders.
And one man stood waiting inside.
Aurora felt it before she even looked at him fully — the warmth. The strange stillness of the air, like the room had changed around his presence.
He was tall, dressed in white robes beneath a pale coat that shimmered slightly in the candlelight. His hair was silver, but not from age — it caught the light like starlight. His skin was golden, eyes a soft and impossible shade of blue. Not piercing. Just deep. Like looking into a sky that had never known clouds.
He smiled when he saw her.
"Hello, Aurora," he said. His voice was low and rich and calm. Not rehearsed. Not performative. Just true.
Damien stepped forward and gently lowered her to the ground. Her feet touched the rug with barely a sound.
"This is Father Eli," he said. "He's a priest. And a very old friend of mine."
She stared at the man. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
She'd seen priests before. But they felt like rules in robes. This man didn't feel like that.
He didn't feel like any man she'd ever seen.
He felt like light.
He stepped forward, not fast. Not slow. Just steady. And bowed his head to her like she was someone that mattered.
"It's an honor to meet you," he said. "You've come a long way."
Aurora still hadn't said anything.
But for the first time in her life, she didn't feel like shrinking in
front of someone important.
She felt like... she could breathe.