Long after the estate quieted, Cassandra lay restless beneath the weight of her thoughts. It whispered through her bones, restless, pulling at her until she felt as if she would be unraveled. Objects shifted in the dark when her fear spiked—small betrayals of a force she could neither claim nor silence.
She pressed her hands into her skirts, willing her body into stillness, but the magic only hummed louder, as though mocking her.
By the time gray light gathered at the windows, she was trembling, uncertain whether she dreaded her power—or herself—more.
Fog pressed soft against the solarium panes. Tea steamed untouched at her elbow. She tried to read and failed; words slid past without meaning. When the knock came—Liraen's small, familiar rhythm—Cassandra exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath all night.
"Your brothers request you in the council chamber," Liraen said, already settling cassis silk over Cassandra's shoulders. "As soon as you wake, they said." Her tone carried the faintest trace of amusement, as though she, too, found their timing graceless.
"Of course they do."
Liraen adjusted the fall of the silk, braided her hair, then guided her from the tower. Cassandra's steps echoed down the spiral stair, her fingers brushing the cool stone of the wall as though it might anchor her.
The corridors smelled faintly of sea-salt drift, morning light spilling through high windows in fractured panes. A candelabrum they passed guttered though no draft stirred; wax spattered onto the floor in a thin trail. Cassandra quickened her pace, pretending not to see.
Servants bowed as she passed, but their eyes lingered—curious, wary. One tray rattled faintly as she drew near, the silver trembling against porcelain until the maid clenched her hands tight to still it. Heat rose in Cassandra's chest. She forced her expression smooth, as if calm could convince the air around her to obey.
By the time they reached the council chamber doors, her palms were damp, her pulse unsteady. She smoothed her skirts once more, schooling her face into composure. Inside waited her brothers.
The chamber smelled of salt and old parchment, maps curling at the edges from years of candle smoke. Alfonse stood by the table, hands folded with that practiced calm that never slipped. Alistar lounged in a chair with his boots crossed, pretending ease but watching her too closely. Henrik, gray-templed and deliberate, remained at the far end of the table, quill in hand, though Cassandra doubted he needed notes to remember what he was about to say.
A single parchment lay unsealed at the center, weighted with the House crest.
Henrik cleared his throat. "Lady Cassandra, the matter can no longer be postponed. Your formal debut must be arranged."
Her stomach dropped. "Debut?"
"You're nearly eighteen," Alfonse said evenly. "Most noble daughters are presented at sixteen—some earlier. Yours has been delayed, and delay often invites more questions than absence."
Alistar leaned forward setting his cup down. "Do you know what whispers sound like when a duke's daughter hides away past her proper year? They invent reasons. Illness. Scandal. Secrets. You'll find none of them flattering."
"I was mourning Father," Cassandra said sternly.
Henrik inclined his head. "Of course, my Lady. But the Emperor's patience with your grief has its limits. Mourning does not exempt you from duty. Appearances matter now more than ever—and if House Delmar is to remain strong, every member of its household must be seen."
"And admired," Alistar added with a crooked smile. "The Solstice gala is less than a month away. You can't keep hiding behind books forever—every family will be there, and they'll be measuring you."
Her jaw tightened. "I will not be paraded like a prize mare at auction."
"Then don't be," Alfonse said, his tone softening. "Tradition isn't ours by desire—it's a burden we endure. But for you, this step into society will matter. It isn't about pleasing them—it's about shaping the chances you'll have."
Cassandra's hands curled in her lap. The quiet thrum under her skin answered her anger, that same strange pulse that had haunted her since the sea.
"Then others will decide for you," Henrik added, quill poised, his voice calm as steel. "Better you set the terms yourself, my lady, than allow the court to dictate them."
A silence fell, heavy as stone. Cassandra thought of the portraits in the gallery—her mother posed in velvet, her own childhood face painted in lace she had hated. A gilded frame was still a frame.
At last she exhaled, long and slow. "If I must do this… then it will be on my terms."
"Good," Henrik said, making a note. "Liaerin and Sir Leoleta will accompany you. Siuol's promenade. Today, before dusk."
Alistar's grin returned, wicked and unyielding. "Then do it properly. Buy the best Siuol has to offer—and let them see why you are the guiding star of House Delmar."
Siuol's promenade glittered like a jewel box turned inside out. Chandeliers hung even in daylight; mirrors multiplied strangers into a crowd. The House of Finery drew them as the tide draws ships—steady, inevitable.
Cassandra's stomach knotted at the threshold. So many choices, none of them hers. Her power prickled faintly beneath her skin, restless, as though it too recoiled from the eyes already turning toward her.
"Breathe," Liaerin murmured, squeezing her hand. Leoleta took his post just inside the door—silent, steady, measuring the room with that unfathomable gaze.
The gowns came like waves. Flashing silks, jeweled collars, trains that dragged like banners meant for parades. Attendants circled with tapes and practiced smiles, comparing her to a painted idea they kept in their heads. A Duke's daughter, yes—yet not the woman they wanted to make.
"Stand straight, my lady," sang a seamstress, mouth full of pins. "Turn—ah! The light loves you."
The light did not ask permission.
Liaerin fastened a clasp at her shoulder while Cassandra studied the mirror. A stranger looked back—too polished, too ornate. She felt ridiculous; these gowns had never suited her, not really. And yet an anxious thought crept in: what if Leoleta saw her this way and thought the same? The pins dug in harder, and her magic stirred, rippling faintly through her chest.
Around them, nobles lingered, eyes sliding over her with quiet appraisal, as if she were another gown set out for purchase. Each look felt like a pin, pricking her skin, pulling her tighter into seams she hadn't chosen.
"Try the pale silk," Liaerin told the seamstress. "Less heraldry, more line."
Pale silk slid cool over Cassandra's shoulders. The pins bit; she didn't flinch.
A ripple of laughter rose near a mirrored column. Three noblewomen clustered there, their heads angled together, voices pitched low and lilting. Cassandra didn't need their words to know their shape. Their eyes told enough—appraising, bold—as they watched Leoleta the way one watches a statue one means to touch when no one is looking.
One of them reached out, fingers grazing his sleeve in a gesture too casual to be accidental. Cassandra's stomach twisted hot. The sight stung more than it should have—especially because Leoleta stood still, unflinching, giving nothing away. His silence was a shield she had once prized. Now it left her wondering if he would have stood just as still for anyone.
Heat climbed her cheeks before she could stop it. Her magic pulsed in answer, sharp, bright—she clenched her hands, willing nothing to move.
"Ignore them," Liaerin said softly.
"How can I?" The sharpness in Cassandra's voice startled her. "He's my guard, not their amusement."
Liaerin'S brow lifted.
"They're distracting him from his duties," Cassandra muttered, and heard the thinness of it. In the mirror, color betrayed her—bright at the cheekbones, eyes refusing to settle.
Liaerin leaned in, pinning deftly. "To them, he's a diversion in uniform. No strings. No attachment." A small smile. "They think you hold the leash."
"They can think what they like," Cassandra said tightly. "He isn't theirs to toy with."
A jeweler materialized with a velvet tray. "Opal suits the throat. Light for spring—a stone that catches what others miss." The clasp settled. The gem cooled against her skin like a secret. She swallowed.
"Another," Liaerin said, and the sea of fabric shifted again. The next gown glittered like spilled coin. Cassandra lasted three heartbeats in it before shaking her head.
"No." The word came low, firm. "This isn't me."
"Then we find what is," Liaerin answered, relief gentle in her smile. "We are not here to make you into anyone else."
Cassandra exhaled. The room came back into focus. Leoleta stood where he had stood—angles and restraint, a fixed point in a place designed to dazzle. The sight steadied her more than the mirrors ever could.
They tried a darker silk—less parade, more line. Liaerin's hands were quick, kind. Pins stopped biting so often.
"Walk," the seamstress said.
Cassandra walked. The hem whispered. The mirrors were kinder in motion than at stillness.
"This one," Liaerin decided, and the seamstress murmured approval. "A few stitches. An hour."
Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief.
When at last the pins were gathered and the final hems marked, she stepped out into the sunlit promenade. The air felt different beyond the shop's mirrored walls—lighter, though her chest remained tight. Liaerin moved ahead to arrange the carriage.
Cassandra lingered, clutching the silk at her side. Behind her, the House of Finery bustled on, noblewomen drifting like jeweled birds, their laughter bright and shallow. Ahead, Leoleta stood where he always did, posture straight, gaze steady, the world refusing to touch him.
For a breath she wondered if he had noticed—her unease, the stares, the silence she had wrapped around herself like a shield. She almost asked. But the words caught behind her teeth.
So she gathered her skirts and stepped toward the waiting carriage, his shadow falling across her path as constant as the light.