Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
The next day the seamstress arrived precisely at noon, a willowy fae woman with spider-silk hair and too many fingers. She moved into Briar's sitting room with an entourage of assistants carrying bolts of fabric that seemed to shimmer between realities.
"Lady Briar." The seamstress's voice was like whispered secrets. "I am Arachne. His lordship says you are to choose freely." Her tone suggested this was as unusual to her as it was to Briar.
"I... yes." Briar stood awkwardly as the assistants began arranging their materials. "He said I could pick whatever I wanted."
"Whatever you want." Arachne's solid black eyes glimmered with interest. "How refreshing. And what is it you want, little human?"
That was the question, wasn't it? For weeks, Eliam had dressed her in gossamer nothings, in gowns that revealed more than they concealed. She should want coverage. Modesty. Something that didn't display her like a trophy.
But as Arachne began showing fabrics, Briar found herself drawn to something unexpected. Not the safe midnight blues or modest wools, but a fabric that seemed to shift between garnet and shadow.
"This one," she said, surprising herself as she reached for it. The silk felt alive under her fingers, warm as blood in sunlight, dark as wine in shadow.
"Interesting choice." Arachne studied her with those unnerving eyes. "His lordship's color, yet not. Show me your marks."
It wasn't a request. Briar pushed up her sleeve, revealing the thorned vines that now wrapped up her entire arm, across her shoulder, and spread like a dark necklace across her collarbone. The tiny white buds had multiplied, scattered like stars among the thorns.
"Magnificent," Arachne breathed. "Still growing, still reaching. And these blooms..." Her many fingers hovered just above the marks. "Do you know what you want the dress to say?"
Briar thought of Malus's words—wear something devastating. But more than that, she thought of walking into that ballroom as herself. Not Eliam's pet, not a victim, but someone who chose her fate even if that fate would inevitably lead to her ruin.
"I want it to look like armor," she said quietly. "Beautiful armor. Something that says I belong there, that I'm not helpless."
Arachne's smile was slow and knowing. "Then let me show you what we can create."
With a gesture, she began sketching in the air, magic making her vision visible.
The bodice materialized first. It was structured and dramatic, with a sweetheart neckline that plunged just enough to be daring without being vulnerable.
The garnet silk would be reinforced with hidden boning, creating a corseted effect that would hold her like a protective embrace.
"Now, the interesting part," Arachne murmured, adding details with her many hands.
"Thorned vines, climbing from the hem. But not just decoration, these will be dimensional.
Black crystal and jet beading to catch the light like dark stars, creating actual texture.
They'll spiral up the skirt, growing wilder and denser as they climb. "
Briar watched, mesmerized, as the design evolved. The vines weren't delicate—they were fierce, dangerous, beautiful. They wrapped around the bodice like natural armor, thorns prominent and proud.
"The sleeves," Arachne continued, "off-shoulder, as you wished. But see here—" She adjusted the design, showing how sheer garnet fabric would drape from the shoulders. "The edges will be lined with more thorns. Subtle from a distance, but up close, anyone reaching for you will see the warning."
"It's perfect," Briar breathed, but Arachne wasn't finished.
"The skirt needs drama." With a flourish, she expanded the design.
Layers upon layers of fabric materialized—garnet silk over black tulle, creating an ombré effect that darkened toward the hem.
The volume was massive, regal, the kind of skirt that would dominate any space she entered.
"And throughout, the vines continue their climb.
Not printed or embroidered flat, but raised, dimensional.
When you move, they'll seem to shift and grow. "
"The back?" Briar asked, almost afraid to know.
Arachne's smile turned wicked. "A deep cut, of course. But framed by crossed lacing, black ribbon through silver grommets, like thorns holding you together. The vines will cluster here too, as if they're growing from your spine itself."
Looking at the complete design floating in the air, Briar felt her breath catch. It was everything she hadn't known she wanted. Dangerous beauty. Chosen bondage. The rose and the thorn united.
"One final detail," Arachne said, adding something at the shoulders and neckline. "Hidden among the black thorns, tiny white crystal blooms. So subtle they'll only catch the light when you move. They'll mirror the buds in your mark exactly."
"It's going to take forever to create," one of the assistants whispered.
"Two days," Arachne said firmly. "I'll need to work through both nights, but it will be ready." She turned to Briar. "This dress will be my masterpiece. You'll walk into that ballroom like a dark queen, like danger given form. Is that what you want?"
Briar thought of Malus, of the destruction coming. Of Eliam, who would see her in this dress and understand she'd chosen to be magnificent in her captivity. Of herself, walking to her doom dressed as both predator and prey.
"Yes," she said. "That's exactly what I want."
"Then we begin immediately." Arachne's hands were already moving, assistants scrambling to bring materials. "When his lordship sees you in this, he won't know whether to worship you or wage war for you."
Perhaps both, Briar thought, pressing her hand to the warmth in her chest. And perhaps neither would matter once Malus revealed the truth.
But she stood still as they measured and pinned, watching her armor take shape, preparing for a battle she couldn't warn anyone was coming.
The rest of that day passed in a blur of fittings and adjustments, Arachne's many hands working tirelessly while Briar stood like a mannequin, lost in dark thoughts.
She barely slept that night, the weight of Malus's threat pressing down like a physical thing.
By the time dawn painted the sky a weak gray, she'd given up on rest entirely.
She dressed quickly in the semi-dark, deciding that if sleep would not grant her relief, perhaps Eliam’s library would.
The space was quiet when she entered, dust motes dancing through pale morning light that seemed too cheerful for Briar's mounting desperation.
Once again she found herself racing against the clock for answers to fae magic she would likely never find, working through stack after stack of texts, testing theories until her fingers were stained with ink and coated in old parchment dust.
She had only two days until the ball and Malus made good on his promise.
Another useless book joined the rejection pile; Fae Contracts and Their Consequences had seemed promising until she realized it only covered willingly entered bargains. Nothing about magic forced through violation, through the mockery of a kiss.
She pulled the next tome toward her, this one bound in something that might have been scales. Compulsions of the Old Courts. Her heart leaped as she flipped through pages of archaic text, searching for anything about breaking unwilling bonds.
"The compelled shall find their tongues bound by the compeller's will," she read, tracing the words with trembling fingers. "Such magic roots deep, twining through thought and voice alike. To break such bonds requires—"
The next page was missing, torn out with deliberate precision.
She slammed the book closed, earning a reproachful hiss from somewhere in the stacks. Even the library disapproved of her temper.
"Come on," she whispered, pulling another text forward. "There has to be something."
This one discussed blood magic, the prices paid for power. She found a passage about compulsions: "Sealed with body's touch, breath, blood, or flesh, such bindings hold fast as iron chains. The compelled may find relief only through equivalent exchange: blood for blood, breath for breath, or—"
The text dissolved before her eyes, words bleeding into illegible smears.
"No!" She grabbed another book, wildly flipping pages. But every time she found something relevant, something that might help, the words would fade or the pages would stick together or the text would be in a language that hurt to look at directly.
The warmth pulsed sympathetically, reaching for something it couldn't grasp. She pressed her hand against it, trying to calm the sensation, but it only fluttered harder.
She'd tried everything she could think of that morning.
Salt circles, the salt had turned black the moment she'd stepped inside, iron touched to her tongue, it had burned like acid, the mark on her arm screaming in protest. She'd tried writing Malus's name, but the ink disappeared before it dried.
Tried miming the truth, but her hands locked mid-gesture.
The compulsion was thorough. Absolute. And getting stronger, This morning she'd barely been able to think of the word "dungeons" without her throat tightening in warning.
"Enjoying some light reading?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Thaine lounged against the bookshelf beside her table, having appeared with his usual silent grace. His eyes tracked over the scattered books with interest.
"Research," she managed, trying to casually close the book about blood magic.
"Compulsions and bindings. Fascinating subjects." He picked up one of her discarded volumes, flipping through it idly. "Planning to break some contracts?"
"Just... curious. About fae magic."
"Mmm." He set the book down, but his gaze remained sharp. "You've been quite curious lately. Midnight walks, early morning research. One might think you'd gotten yourself into some sort of... predicament."