(Nyx POV)
Three days later, the palace smelled of silk and politics instead of blood.And for the first time since the attack. Today I am being fitted for a dress instead of armor.
The palace tailors had seen a lot in their years—bloodstained uniforms, shredded armor, even Dorian's ceremonial cloak after the last assassination attempt—but nothing could have prepared them for this.
Me. In a dress.
"Hold still, Your Grace," the seamstress murmured, stabbing another pin into the gown's hem.
"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You're not the one being impaled for the sake of embroidery."
Tamsin snorted and chuckled from her corner, one boot propped against the wall. "You sure that isn't armor? It looks like it could stop a dagger—if not an entire marriage ceremony."
"It's Silk," the seamstress corrected primly. "Imported from the Isles."
"Ah," Tamsin said. "So, guilt and money."
I bit back a grin as the seamstress gave a small gasp and hurried off. Across the room, Queen Viviene set down her teacup, turning the glossy pages of a wedding-dress magazine with the kind of effortless grace that could command armies. She didn't have to speak to dominate a room—her silences did it for her.
"Tamsin," she said finally, voice smooth as porcelain, "my dear, your humor is… robust."
"Thank you? I guess, your Majesty?"
"It wasn't a compliment." Viviene smiled faintly. "We must work on that chortle of yours."
"My what?" Tamsin, genuinely clueless.
"Your chortle. Your—good heavens, what do you soldiers call it? Ah, yes, your snorting laughter." The Queen sighed. "It's off-putting to say the least. And a Beta's mate must possess as much decorum as the Alpha Lycan King and his Queen."
The room froze. Even the pins stopped clinking.
Tamsin's jaw dropped. "Wait—what?"
I suddenly found great interest in a single pearl on my bodice. So, round. So perfectly not this conversation.
Viviene sipped her tea. "You heard me."
"Your Majesty," Tamsin said cautiously, "may I have permission to speak bluntly?"
Viviene slowly swallowed her sip, clearly savoring the moment. "Mm. You may."
Tamsin squared her shoulders. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The Queen coughed—hard—nearly spilling her tea. One of the seamstresses yelped, and I lost it entirely. Laughter erupted out of me in uncontrollable waves.
"Oh, Goddess," Viviene wheezed, pressing a handkerchief to her lips. "You're quite serious, aren't you?"
Tamsin looked horrified. "I—I didn't mean—It's just—what?!"
Viviene cleared her throat, eyes twinkling. "You and Commander Cassian. The council adores symmetry. A King and Queen. A Beta and Commander. It's all very traditional."
Tamsin blinked. "Traditional? That's not tradition—that's a logistics nightmare."
Viviene laughed—a rich, melodic sound that filled the chamber. "You're refreshingly honest, my dear. The court could use more of it."
She studied us for a long, amused moment. "Tell me—you two haven't honestly spoken of Beta Cassian's obvious and utter fascination with the Nubian goddess standing before me?"
Tamsin blinked. "Goddess? Where?"
Viviene waved her hand toward me. "You, my dear. The woman who can gut a man and still make any garment look like sin incarnate with that beautiful body of yours."
"Your Majesty—" I started, trying to spare Tamsin more embarrassment.
"Oh, hush." Viviene smiled. "I'm merely voicing what everyone in the palace already knows. Poor Cassian walks around like a lovesick pup every time you breathe near him. He's smitten with you, maybe even a little obsessed?"
Tamsin gaped. "Cassian? Smitten? He once called me 'the most terrifying thing to happen to logistics.'"
"Men express affection in all sorts of unfortunate ways," Viviene said serenely. "The more disciplined they are, the more catastrophic their hearts."
Tamsin turned on me. "You knew?"
"I suspected," I said carefully. "He stops blinking and barely breathes when you walk into a room."
"Wonderful," she groaned. "A Beta with a death wish."
Viviene smirked. "What kind of women are you—so formidable, so loyal—and yet so utterly clueless?"
Tamsin. "I'm a soldier, and she is the Queen."
"Future Queen," I corrected. "And apparently, future matchmaker."
Viviene exhaled through a laugh. "My goddess, you two are hopeless."
___
The seamstresses returned to their work, fussing over the skirt. Tamsin eyed the gown as if it were an enemy combatant.
"You realize," Tamsin said, "this dress is about as practical as a sugar sculpture in a sword fight."
"I was just thinking that," I replied. "It would be a shame to get blood on it if I have to stab somebody."
Tamsin barked a laugh—loud, wild, and unrestrained—throwing her head back until the sound bounced off the marble walls. It was pure, glorious chaos, and every seamstress froze in terror.
Viviene raised a brow. "My goddess, Tamsin, that howling cackle of yours could wake the dead."
Viviene sighed with mock despair. "Remind me never to seat you two near diplomats. The kingdom might not survive it."
___
Once the laughter faded, Viviene's tone softened. "You'll wear the royal colors during the Recognition Ceremony—ivory and gold. Symbolic of unity between strength and purity."
"Could we go with something less… blinding?" I asked.
Viviene arched a brow. "You faced assassins in the library, and this is what frightens you?"
"I'm not afraid," I said. "Just allergic to lace."
Tamsin muttered, "And Recognition Ceremonies."
Viviene ignored her. "This ceremony will mark more than your recognition before the priesthood and elders. It's a division of governance. Dorian will oversee the eastern and southern provinces. You will command the north and west."
"Division of power," I murmured.
"Exactly." Viviene's gaze softened, pride hidden beneath that regal calm. "Your bond will be tested through duty, not devotion. Unity isn't sameness—it's balance."
Tamsin gave a low whistle. "So basically, no pressure."
"None at all," I said.
___
Two Days Later…
When I returned to the fitting room for the final adjustment, the scent hit first—ink, rot, and something burned.
The gown lay in shreds across the marble floor. The ivory silk was cut to ribbons, the pearls torn loose, and thick black ink smeared across the gold embroidery.
A note had been pinned to what was left of the bodice.
Let's see you finish your vows in this, slut.
For every one of ours you take, we take two of yours.
—Shadow Fang
The paper smelled faintly of ash.
And beneath that… the unmistakable sting of silver blood.