After they finished their dress shopping Kestrel dragged her to the shoe shop as insisting that she needs a new matching pair of shoes for the Ball.
The bell above the door of The Cobbler's Bench let out a sharp, silver chime that felt like a needle to Elissa's nerves. After the dizzying ordeal of Madame Bisset's pins, the shoe shop was a cramped, leather-scented sanctuary—or so she thought.
"Stand on the stool, Elissa. I won't have you dancing in boots that look like they were made for trekking through a bog," Kestrel commanded, her voice echoing off the rows of wooden lasts.
As the apprentice knelt to measure Elissa's foot, the heavy velvet curtain of the neighboring fitting stall shifted. Two noblewomen, draped in fox fur and smelling of cloying musk, paused their hushed conversation. Their eyes raked over Elissa—not with the curiosity of the commoners, but with the cold, sharpened judgment of the court.
"Is that her?" one whispered, her voice carrying on the draft. "The Starwind girl? I heard the lineage has thinned to nothing. A witch without a spark. A princess of a kingdom that's nothing but ash."
"A hollow vessel," the other sneered, her lip curling. "The Crown Prince brings a bird with clipped wings into the Bastion and expects us to bow. Humiliating, really."
The words hit Elissa like a physical blow. The blood rushed to her face, a stinging heat that made her eyes prickle. She stared down at her own reflection in the polished brass of the measuring scale—pale, small, and suddenly feeling every bit the fraud they claimed she was. The "member of the castle" title felt like a lie.
"I... I think I have the measurements," Elissa murmured, her voice thick, stepping off the stool before the apprentice was even finished. She just wanted to vanish.
"Stay put, Elissa," a deep, rolling voice vibrated through the shop.
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Dante Ironclad stepped through the doorway, his massive frame nearly blocking out the light from the street. He didn't look at Elissa first; he turned his head slowly toward the two noblewomen. His glare was a physical weight, cold and jagged as a glacier.
The women blanched, their whispers dying in their throats as they scurried out of the shop without a word, their silk skirts hissing in their wake.
"Vultures," Dante grunted, his gaze finally softening as it landed on Elissa.
Vane, who had been inspecting a pair of buckskin riding boots, sauntered over. He leaned in close to Dante, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hum. "Not that I'm not glad to see your cheerful face, big man, but what are you doing in a lace-and-leather boutique? This isn't exactly your scene."
Dante didn't look at Vane, his eyes tracking the street outside. "Business with the Duke of the lower city. Alistair is here. He had... specific requirements for his own footwear for the Solstice. He's with the Master Cobbler in the back."
Vane raised an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. Alistair D'Valtheron didn't "browse" markets. If he was here, in the same district, at the same hour, it wasn't a coincidence. It was a silent patrol.
"Specific requirements, eh?" Vane chuckled, glancing at Elissa, who was still trying to blink away the sting of the noblewomen's words. "Well, tell the 'Specific Prince' that his guest is being harassed by old crows. It's bad for morale."
"He knows," Dante said simply, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Once the shoes were boxed—delicate, silver-buckled slippers that felt like nothing at all—the group stepped back out into the biting wind. The humiliation still sat like a stone in Elissa's stomach, making her feel small against the towering obsidian walls of the city.
Vane noticed the way she was clutching her parcels, her knuckles white. He slung a casual arm over her shoulder, his warmth cutting through the chill.
"Right," Vane announced, his voice booming with forced cheer. "I've decided. If I have to look at one more bolt of silk or a shoe buckle, I'm going to defect to the Hollow. We need grease, sugar, and enough ale to drown a mountain ox. Dante, you're coming. My treat—mostly" , he looked at Dante and said, "you're going to pay."
Dante let out a huff that might have been a laugh. "I have work."
"The Duke can wait," Kestrel said, grabbing Dante's other arm. "Elissa needs to eat something that didn't come out of a palace kitchen. There's a meat pie shop three streets over that's basically a religious experience."
Elissa looked up at them—the boisterous Princess, the silver-tongued Vane, and the silent, protective wall of Dante. The sting of the "hollow vessel" comment was still there, but it was being pushed back by the sheer, noisy humanity of the people standing around her.
"Come on, Little Bird," Vane nudged her. "Let's go see if we can find a pie that's better than Alistair's mood."
The air outside the cobbler's shop was sharp enough to draw blood. Elissa stepped into the wind, her fingers white-knuckled around the box containing her silver-buckled slippers. The noblewomen's whispers were still ringing in her ears—A hollow vessel. A princess of ash.
She felt small. Transparent. Like the winter sun that struggled to cast a shadow on the cobblestones.
They turned the corner into a narrow alleyway that smelled of woodsmoke and roasting fat. Halfway down the lane, a tall, unmistakable figure stepped out from a master armorer's shop.
Alistair.
He wasn't in his royal mantle. He wore a simple, high-collared black tunic and a heavy traveling cloak, his dark hair dusted with a fine layer of sleet. He looked less like a Prince and more like a shadow that had taken human form.
As they approached, Alistair's crystalline, incandescent blue eyes flicked toward them. He didn't look at Vane's smirk or Kestrel's defiant stride. His gaze locked directly onto Elissa's face.
He saw it instantly—the redness in her cheeks that wasn't from the cold, and the way she was looking at the ground as if she didn't belong on it.
"The Duke is waiting, Dante," Alistair said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that cut through the market noise like a blade.
"I was just... escorted," Dante muttered, nodding toward Kestrel.
Vane didn't miss a beat. "We're taking the Starwind for a proper Northern lunch. Care to join us, cousin? Or are you too busy ordering 'tactical' footwear for the Ball?"