Smothered in Silk
Aurora POV
We arrived at the west wing parlor in the early afternoon, though “parlor” was entirely the wrong word for the scene I walked into.
It looked as though a tempest of textiles had detonated within the stone walls.
Racks of gleaming fabrics lined the windows, mannequins were draped in half-finished bodices, and the air smelled heavily of lavender, chalk, and raw silk. ?
In the center of the chaos stood, whom I can only assume is, Madame Tulla.
She was a vibrant older woman with silver streaked hair piled high on her head, a measuring tape slung like a weapon around her neck, and a pincushion strapped to her wrist.
The moment I crossed the threshold, she gasped, dropping a spool of thread and practically flying across the room to seize my hands.
“Our lovely Luna!” Tulla breathed, her dark amber eyes darting over my face, taking in my features with an expression of sheer, artistic rapture. “The Argentis Princess! Oh my! Alpha Kieran told me you were beautiful, but words do not do justice to the canvas the Moon Goddess has provided me!”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Madame Tulla,” I said, a bit overwhelmed but flattered by her theatrical enthusiasm.
“Come darling! Into the center!,” Tulla commanded, abandoning my hands to buzz around me like a highly caffeinated hummingbird. She whipped the measuring tape around my waist, muttering rapid-fire numbers to an assistant who was efficiently scribbling everything down on a clipboard.
“Hmm. Strong posture,” Tulla noted, her expert hands gliding over the lean muscle of my upper back. She stepped back, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in my full silhouette with the calculating gaze of a master sculptor assessing raw marble.
She circled me slowly, her tape flying out to capture my measurements in a flurry of practiced movement.
She paused to measure my bust and hips, a sharp hum of approval vibrating in her throat.
Tulla clapped her hands together, a spark of manic inspiration igniting her features.
“Into the dressing screen! All of you, sit! Drink tea! Let the me do my work!”
she commanded, sending three frantic assistants scurrying to grab hangers.
What followed was a dizzying, exhausting, and utterly hilarious four-hour marathon of silk, tulle, and velvet.
It quickly became apparent that my three new friends possessed vastly different tastes in fashion, and none of them quite knew what to do about that.
Lyra, bless her chaotic heart, was drawn to anything that sparkled or ruffled.
Her first selection for me was a massive, pale-pink confection covered in iridescent beading and layers of sheer organza.
It completely obliterated the hourglass figure Tulla had just spent ten minutes praising.
It took two assistants just to help me navigate the doorway of the changing screen.
“You look like a magical, frosted sugar-plum!” Lyra squealed from the sofa, clapping her hands as I stepped out, holding the massive skirts up just to find my footing.
“I look like I’ve been swallowed alive by a peony,” I laughed, attempting to take a step and immediately tripping over a stiff tulle underlayer. “I certainly can’t run in this, and I’m pretty sure I don’t have a waist anymore.”
“She looks like a cupcake with too much frosting,” Mara countered flatly, arms crossed as she surveyed the pink disaster. “Burn it.”
“It’s romantic!” Lyra protested, pouting.
“It’s a fire hazard,” Mara corrected, standing up to browse the racks herself.
Her choice was predictably lethal. She handed Tulla a sleek, midnight-black ensemble featuring a dangerously high leg slit, a leather-reinforced bodice, and silver accents that looked suspiciously like armor plating.
Stepping out in it, I had to admit, I felt much more in my element. The stiff leather molded tightly to my ribs and lifted my chest, emphasizing my curves while giving off a decidedly menacing aura. I did a quick, experimental high-kick, the slit parting perfectly to allow a full range of motion.
“See? Practical, intimidating, and regal,” Mara argued proudly as I modeled it, striking a combative pose. “Plus, I could easily fit three throwing knives in that thigh slit, and there’s a hidden pocket in the back perfectly sized for a garrote wire.”
“She is attending a sacred coronation ceremony, Mara, not infiltrating a Draconian stronghold to commit an assassination,” Elara sighed, rubbing her temples and shooting Mara a look of absolute horror.
I actually secretly appreciated the hidden pockets, running my hands over the smooth leather. But Elara was right; it felt far too aggressive for a celebration, even if the urge to stash a dagger was a temptation that was hard to deny.
Next came an offering from Tulla herself.
It was a beautiful white silk gown cut in the traditional “maiden” style of the old courts.
It was meant to symbolize purity and new beginnings.
But as I stared at my reflection, the blood drained from my face.
The pristine white did not feel like who I had become.
I looked like a ghost of the girl who had died eight years ago, not the she-wolf who had survived the war.
Elara noticed immediately that it was not to my liking. She gently touched my arm, her eyes full of understanding, and quietly asked Tulla to remove it.
Elara’s own selection came next. It was a breathtaking, traditional Valdoran gown in deep sapphire velvet, heavily embroidered with the Alpha King’s crest in silver thread. It was gorgeous, boasting a sweeping train and a high, elegant neckline.
“The sapphire represents the deep loyalty of our pack,” Elara explained softly as an assistant tightened the laces at my back. “And the silver threading weaves your Argentis heritage into the Valdoran line. It shows unity.”
But as I stood on the pedestal, I shifted my shoulders, feeling completely weighed down by the heavy, oppressive fabric.
The rigid bodice was clearly designed for someone with a much narrower bust, compressing my chest uncomfortably.
The collar scratched at my throat, a phantom leash that made my inner wolf bare her teeth in discomfort.
“It’s beautiful, Elara,” I admitted softly, looking at my reflection in the mirror and seeing a stranger staring back. “But I can barely breathe in it.”
And just like that, the fourth hour had passed, the late afternoon sun was beginning to cast long, golden shadows across the parlor floor, and my initial amusement had faded into a dull, lingering frustration.
My friends had run out of suggestions, their earlier enthusiasm replaced by a collective, sympathetic silence.
I stood on the pedestal in a simple silk slip, running a hand through my messy white hair, accidentally dislodging three pins an assistant had tried to sneak in.
Nothing felt right. Every dress had been a masterpiece, but they all felt like costumes designed for a different person.
The heavy silence in the room was only broken by the soft ticking of the grand clock on the mantle and Tulla’s heavy, defeated sigh. She gathered up her measuring tape, her vibrant energy finally extinguished.
“The Luna ceremony is tomorrow,” Tulla muttered, rubbing her temples, her voice thick with creeping panic. “My mind is clouded, and I am trying to force the river to flow upstream. We are entirely out of time, and I will have to work through the night to pull a miracle from thin air.”
I offered her an understanding smile, crossing my arms over the thin silk of my slip against the chill of the room. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Madame Tulla.”
“Nonsense,” she waved a frantic hand dismissively. “The canvas is flawless. It is the artist who is failing to capture its spirit, and the clock that has become our cruelest enemy.”
Before anyone could offer another word of comfort, the doors of the parlor swung open. Two guards in full Valdoran armor stepped into the room as they flanked the doorway. Between them strode a young woman carrying a garment box made of polished wood.
Her dark hair was cropped in a sharp, asymmetrical bob, and she carried the unmistakable confident swagger of a young, ambitious she-wolf. Her amber eyes, a mirror image of Tulla’s, locked immediately onto me.
“Kaia?” Tulla gasped, nearly dropping her pincushion. “What in the Goddess’s name are you doing here? You haven’t left your workshop in weeks!”
“Six months, Mother,” Kaia corrected, setting the heavy wooden box gently onto the large central table. She turned to me, offering a deep, respectful bow that was graceful but not overly submissive. “My Luna. Please forgive the intrusion.”
“What is this, Kaia?” Tulla asked, stepping closer to the box. “I knew you were working on a private commission, but you refused to let me see it.”
“It wasn’t a commission,” Kaia said, her eyes shining with a fierce, creative fire.
“It was a vision. I started it half a year ago, but I could never figure out who it was for. The muses wouldn’t let me rest. Then we were told that our King had found his fated mate. The Argent Princess.”
Kaia rested a hand on the lid of the box.
“When I heard about you, the final pieces clicked into place. I have barely slept so that I could hopefully finish this in time!”
A ripple of intrigued energy swept through the room. Lyra perked up on the sofa, Mara uncrossed her arms, and Elara stepped forward, her eyes wide.
“May I?” Kaia asked, looking directly at me.
“Yeah, of course” I smiled at her.
“Great!” Kaia hoisted the box into her arms and marched behind the velvet screen. “Follow me,” she ordered, echoing her mother’s bossy professionalism.
I stepped back behind the changing screen, and Kaia followed.
As she helped me step into the garment, a strange sensation washed over me.
There was no oppressive weight. There was no suffocating corset or itchy lace.
As Kaia’s nimble fingers worked the subtle clasps at my sides and smoothed the fabric, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. It felt like a second skin.
“A few minor adjustments to the hem,” Kaia murmured from near my feet, her voice trembling slightly with excitement. “A tuck here at the waist since you are more toned than my mannequin. But otherwise...”
“It feels...” I whispered, my heart pounding in my chest. “It feels right.”
“Come, let us see you properly,” Kaia said softly, stepping back and pulling the velvet screen away.
I stepped out onto the pedestal. For a long, suspended second, the parlor was dead silent. The late afternoon sun caught the edges of my silhouette, illuminating the room in golden light.
Then, a collective gasp sucked the air from the room.
Lyra’s hands flew to cover her mouth. Mara let out a low, impressed whistle, a feral grin of absolute respect spreading across her face. Elara simply pressed a hand to her heart, speechless.
And Madame Tulla? She looked from me to her daughter in absolute awe.
I turned to face the tall mirror, finally seeing what they saw. It was a masterpiece. And it was absolutely perfect!