Chapter 17

"Come," the acolyte said, her voice even as she gestured toward the waiting bath.

Amriel's gaze returned to the large, claw-footed tub, its surface steaming gently, wisps of heat curling into the air like ghostly fingers reaching for the ceiling. This time it was the scent of morrow root and rosewood that hung thick in the chamber, warm and grounding.

A bath. A hot bath.

Warmed water was a luxury. For common folk, heating a bath required wood, and wood was a precious fuel, not to be wasted on simple comforts. All Amriel had ever known was the touch of cold water against her skin.

But here, within the Coven, magic bent to convenience. A simple spell, a flicker of power, and the water was warmed to perfection.

Still, she hesitated, fingers lingering at the hem of her tunic.

The acolyte stood by, unmoving, watching but offering no impatience.

With a slow breath, Amriel stripped off her dust-streaked tunic and trousers, feeling the cool air brush against her bare skin before she stepped into the water's waiting embrace.

Heat swallowed her whole.

A sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it, her body instinctively melting into the warmth. The bath reached her collarbones, lapping gently at her sun kissed skin, easing the tension that had settled in her bones from that past few weeks.

Gods.

It felt divine.

"Let me know if you require it warmer or cooler," the acolyte said, stepping away and began to prepare only what Amriel could assume was her outfit for the evening.

Amriel let her fingers skim the water's surface, watching as tiny ripples expanded outward.

"It's perfect," she said, voice quieter than intended.

She wanted to relax—gods, she did—but her mind refused to uncoil completely.

Just then, something shifted in the air.

A pulse. A ripple.

The presence of magic moved around her. It wasn't exactly subtle, the acolyte still had work to do on refining her skills, they were course as of yet. The sponge resting on the tub's edge lifted, suspended by invisible hands, before dipping into the water and pressing against her back. Gentle, practiced strokes worked away the grime, while a second force moved through her dark hair, fingers of unseen power untangling and smoothing through the knots.

Amriel stiffened—just for a moment—then let out a slow breath.

She should have expected this. Of course the witches wouldn't sully their hands with something so mundane as bathing one such as herself.

Still, the sensation of being tended to by nothing at all set her teeth on edge.

She needed something to ground herself, to make this moment feel real.

"Where are you from, Lyanna?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest.

The acolyte, busy arranging what appeared to be layers of fine fabric on a nearby table, hesitated just for a breath before answering.

"Sa'Dral," she said finally.

Amriel's fingers twitched beneath the water.

Sa'Dral.

A coastal kingdom, small yet rich with trade and culture, lying just south of Khymarh—her mother's homeland. Its people bore bronze skin, straight black hair, and almond-shaped eyes, their frames often smaller but strong, their seafaring nature making them resilient. Her mother's affinity for the forest had been at odds with her intended nature.

She studied Lyanna for a moment—the curve of her cheekbones, the subtle golden undertone of her skin, the way her dark eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"You remind me of my mother," Amriel admitted.

Lyanna glanced up, her gaze sharp with something almost guarded, though she quickly schooled her features.

"Don't move," the acolyte said briskly, her tone shifting to something firm and unwavering. "Or else the spell I've set to untangle this ungodly mess will rip your hair out instead. And we can't present you to the King bald, now can we?"

Amriel huffed a quiet breath, sinking deeper into the warmth.

"Charming," she muttered.

Lyanna didn't smile, but there was something like amusement in the twitch of her mouth.

"Rest while you can," she instructed, turning back to her work. "You won't get another chance tonight."

Amriel wanted to argue—wanted to insist that she didn't need rest, that she had survived worse than a simple audience with a King.

But something in the weight of Lyanna's words—the quiet certainty of them—made her pause.

So, for once, she closed her eyes.

And she let herself be still.

The Acolyte signalled the end of the soak when the water began to cool, and rather rapidly.

Time's up. Amriel sighed.

Lyanna's voice confirmed it. "It's time to dress."

Amriel opened her eyes, reluctantly surfacing from the brief moment of peace. Suspended in the air before her, a deep emerald towel hovered, waiting. She reached for it, the fabric plush and rich against her skin, a stark contrast to the rough, threadbare linens she was used to.

She dried herself in silence, aware of Lyanna's patient presence nearby. When she was done, the acolyte handed her a robe—no words, no needless gestures, just the silent efficiency of someone trained in duty above all else.

Once she'd dried off, the acolyte handed her a white robe without another word, and Amriel slipped it on, the rich fabric cool and weighty against her skin.

"Follow me," Lyanna said, already moving.

Amriel fell into step behind her, barefoot against the polished stone, passing through an arched doorway into another chamber.

Here, the setting sun poured through tall windows, drenching the space in hues of gold and crimson, painting long shadows across the floor.

As they entered, overhead, witch-lights flared to life, their glow emulating midday brightness, unnatural yet steady, ensuring that no task was hindered by the dying light of day.

It was disorienting—like stepping between worlds.

"Please, sit."

Lyanna gestured toward a stool before an ornate vanity, its gilded mirror reflecting Amriel's image in stark clarity.

She hesitated.

Her own face stared back at her, framed by damp, dark strands of hair, her cheekbones sharp, lips pale, expression unreadable. A stranger, yet not.

Amriel settled onto the stool.

Behind her, Lyanna moved without wasted motion, arranging small vials and powders. A scent of pressed florals and crushed minerals filled the air—courtly luxuries.

Magic stirred.

Amriel stiffened as invisible fingers returned, sweeping through her long black hair, parting, smoothing, twisting. The sensation was strange—not quite human, not quite touchless—a whisper of warmth trailing her scalp.

She willed herself to stay still.

It was one thing to let the magic wash over her skin in the bath. It was another to trust it not to sear her hair off. So she did as instructed and remained still.

Wouldn't that be something? Facing the king bald.

The thought nearly made her smirk.

Heat bloomed over her head, low and steady, drying the strands as the unseen hands worked. She didn't fight it. Instead, she studied herself in the mirror, noting the small details she had inherited.

Her features mirrored Lyanna's—through her mothers unmistakable Sa'Dral blood—from the high cheekbones to the almond-shaped eyes. But the cobalt irises? Those were her father's.

What would he think if he saw her now?

For a long time, she hadn't cared to ask herself that question.

Though he had drifted away from her after the war with the Fallen, theirs had been a close relationship. There had been a time when he would have rested a calloused hand on her shoulder and called her his little warrior.

That time was gone. And how she missed him.

The warmth of the spell faded. A veil of sheer black-blue fabric was draped over her freshly arranged hair, fastened in place with a silver hairpin—simple, but elegant.

Magic stirred once more, applying a light touch of cosmetics.

The soft stroke of a brush across her cheekbones, the delicate press of pigment onto her lips—she recognized the materials. Rouge, likely from the Amara plant, highly pigmented, reserved for noble women who could afford such indulgences.

Her gaze flicked to the small pot of dark powder, the kohl mixture of Mhykra and charcoal that now rimmed her eyes, making her cobalt irises stand out—sultry yet sharp. And then the final touch—a brightening dust of finely ground Okalla leaves, giving her skin a luminous glow.

Subtle.

Not a mask, not an illusion.

Just… enhanced.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the magic withdrew.

Amriel blinked, taking in her reflection once more.

Her features were still hers, yet elevated.

She almost didn't recognize herself.

A rustle behind her.

She turned to find Lyanna standing there, holding the gown she had seen earlier—cobalt and silver.

Amriel exhaled through her nose, forcing her shoulders to relax as she stood. Together, they dressed her carefully, the fabric draping over her frame without disturbing the meticulous work of the magical hands before.

The silk whispered against her skin, the weight settling over her like a second skin she hadn't yet grown accustomed to.

She swallowed.

This was it.

A presence stirred at the doorway.

Kortana.

The Coven Leader entered without hesitation, her sharp gaze sweeping over Amriel in silent assessment. She was dressed in a deeper, richer version of her violet robes, the fabric so dark it nearly bled into black. A veil of the same shade covered her long silver-grey hair, framing her sharp, intelligent eyes.

A nod. Small, but final.

"Better," Kortana murmured.

Amriel let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders beneath the unfamiliar weight of the fine robes. "And now?"

Kortana's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Now," she said, voice low and knowing, "we step into the lion's den."