Sunlight slanted through the arrow-slit windows in thin, pale bars, catching dust motes that drifted like ash in the eastern tower chamber. The fire had been rebuilt to a low, steady burn; its warmth could not quite reach the chill that had settled into Seren's bones since the council meeting. She stood in the centre of the room, arms outstretched, while two seamstresses, silent and efficient women from the royal wardrobe circled her with measuring tapes and pins.
The gown they were fitting was midnight blue, heavier than anything she had ever worn. Silver embroidery traced delicate vines along the bodice and sleeves—subtle enough to pass as modest court fashion, intricate enough to whisper wealth. The neckline was high, the skirt flowing but not sweeping; every line had been chosen to conceal rather than reveal. To hide the faint scars that still lingered where ropes had bitten into her wrists. To disguise the way her body had begun to change.
Because it had.
