A Fate of Wrath & Flame (Fate & Flame 1)

“Fates, are you trying to send me to Za’Hala before dark?” Elisaf says between gritted teeth, his face turning ashen.

“If only.” Zander seems unperturbed, but he hollers to someone unseen. “Fetch Wendeline!” To Elisaf, he says, “Here. Staunch the blood with this,” and peels his shirt up over his head, tossing it to his friend.

I cringe at the gaping wound revealed in the split second it takes Elisaf to grab the cloth and wind it around his arm.

“I apologize. My head is not focused on the right things,” Zander says somberly.

Neither is mine. While I’m still fretting over Elisaf, I find myself quietly admiring the smooth olive skin and cut planes of Zander’s back. He’s built but not brawny, his muscles evenly distributed. I’d sensed the strength in his arms while bracketed between them earlier today, but now I can see they are perfectly honed, his shoulders sculpted with strength, likely from countless hours of swordplay.

“Your Highness! The seamstress is here to take your measurements!” Corrin announces loudly from the threshold, drawing both men’s eyes up to where I lurk above. A shirtless Zander turns, giving me an eyeful of a torso thickly padded with muscle.

I rush inside, my cheeks burning.

Where Corrin is a sopping towel thrown over a lit hearth, Dagny is the party guest who radiates warmth the moment she steps into the room.

“Oh, Your Highness! This one was surely spun with you in mind!” The short, stout seamstress holds up a gauzy, bluish-gray fabric against my cheek. “The merchant said it was the color of a dove in the evening light, and he would be right!” She was sent here to take my measurements so she can craft me a new gown, and she hasn’t stopped prattling on since she laid eyes on me. There’s not a hint of animosity to be found in her flamboyant personality or her thick, lilting accent. If I had to put her in any camp, it would be in the “dear, sweet Princess Romeria could never have done such appalling things!” category. It’s a nice change from Corrin’s surliness.

“Look at that color against your skin. What a lovely hue.” Dagny’s brow furrows as she tilts her head and studies the material from that angle. She wears the telltale gold band on her ear and the engraving—a symbol I can’t read—matches the one on Corrin’s. I assume it’s a brand for their servitude to Zander and the royal family. Her hair is coarse and feathered with gray, the strands fraying in all directions from her bun like loose wires. Compared to everyone else I’ve seen in the castle so far, she’s an unkempt anomaly. It’s refreshing. “Don’t ya agree, Corrin? Isn’t that the ideal color?”

“I think any time you’d like to stop flattering and take measurements so Her Highness doesn’t have to attend gatherings in her nightgown would be ideal,” Corrin says crisply.

I spear my attendant with a flat look. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Someone else’s mood to sour? The woman never lingers in my rooms. This is new. Then again, everything today is new, and changing rapidly.

Corrin folds her arms over her small bosom. “I am exactly where I need to be.” To Dagny, she says, her tone a touch more conciliatory, “Her Highness has much on her schedule. Please do make haste.”

I have a schedule now? I glance at Corrin, but she doesn’t elaborate as she helps me out of my dress.

Dagny gasps at the sight of my shoulder, visible in my shift. “Goodness, Your Highness!”

“Yes, yes. They are dreadful,” Corrin dismisses. “The king would like them covered.”

Her words are a sharp prick to my ego.

“Are the stories true, then? About the daaknar?” Dagny whispers, as if afraid to utter the words out loud.

“Of course not!” Corrin snaps, glaring at the seamstress like she’s an idiot for even suggesting it. “If a daaknar did that to Her Highness, she would be dead.”

“That’s what I understood, but the stories …” Dagny blusters, her cheeks flushing.

I feel bad for her. Her kind heart is no match for Corrin’s brusque nature.

“Her Highness was attacked by one of her own when she tried to stop the insurgents. They used caco claws on her.” Corrin shoots a sharp glare my way, as if warning me against countering her lie.

“Oh, those wicked people.” Dagny’s head shakes furiously. “Such wicked people, what they’ve done to their own princess. Oh yes, I have just the design in mind for you, Your Highness.”

“So, you’re going to make me a dress.”

She chortles, as if my words are hilarious. “Well, yes, I am Her Highness’s seamstress. I will make all your gowns. New and proper ones that will hide what needs to be hidden.” She sets to measuring my body, as if suddenly frantic to get to work.

“Would you mind not making it so … poofy?”

Dagny’s eyebrows squish together. “Poofy, Your Highness?”

“Poofy.” I gesture to my hips, holding my arms out wide, and then point to the dress I wore today. “I’d like something a little more formfitting, and not so heavy.” I think back to the one I was wearing the night I met Sofie. I’ve seen nothing remotely similar in style so far.

“But that is the style for women of the court!” Corrin blurts, as if my request has personally offended her, adding crisply, “Your Highness.”

Maybe it’s time for a new style, I want to say, but I’m supposed to be blending in, not shining a light on the fact that I’m an interloper. At least I can be thankful these outfits don’t come with hoops and bum rolls. “The king was annoyed by it while riding through town.” And God forbid we annoy him.