Chapter 25 Aurelia
Aurelia
Lysara helped me dress.
She motioned for me to sit at the vanity, then moved behind me, gently running her fingers through the chaos of my curls.
“Your hair is like an extension of you,” she murmured, a small smile curving her lips. “Not meant to be tamed, not meant to be controlled—but I’m going to need it to cooperate. Just for tonight.”
Her touch was careful. She twisted and pinned the thickest sections away from my face, braiding a small crown at the top of my head. Tiny white flowers, soft as starlight, were tucked between the coils.
When she finished, half of my hair flowed freely down my back in loose, inky spirals. The rest was intricately gathered and arranged, framing my face with just enough softness to feel like me.
Lysara stepped away briefly and returned with a length of sheer fabric that shimmered in the candlelight.
“A final touch,” she said.
She attached the cape to the shoulders of my gown with small silver clasps shaped like crescent moons.
It was weightless, nearly transparent, catching just enough light to leave a soft trail as I moved.
I tested the slit with a half-step, checking how much room I had to run if I needed to.
The cape dragged more than I liked, but it would do.
“Now,” she said, turning me gently toward the mirror.
She lined my eyes with a dark kohl, steady hands bringing sharpness to my gaze.
The cool blue of my irises stood out, clear and piercing.
Then she applied a deep wine-colored cream to my lips, patting it in with the pads of her fingers until the color settled.
When she stepped back, I barely recognized the girl in the mirror.
I was used to leathers—fitted trousers, worn-in tunics, boots laced tight when necessary, discarded when they weren’t. In warmer seasons, I favored sleeveless wraps and loose shorts—practical for movement but cool enough for comfort.
The girl in the mirror didn’t look like someone who trained daily, who sparred in sun-baked courtyards or climbed the sea cliffs of Synnex to clear her head. She looked like someone from another time. Someone meant to be devoured—or crowned. Maybe both.
I stared at her—at me—and wondered how many costumes I could wear, how many parts I could perform, before I lost the thread of who I was beneath it all.
My fingers brushed the scar trailing down the center of my chest, plainly visible in the deep neckline of the gown.
“I don’t suppose you could do something to cover this?” I asked, eyes flicking to Lysara’s reflection in the mirror.
She paused behind me, hands stilling on the fabric near my shoulders.
“Scars tell stories,” she said softly. “Usually the ones we’d rather forget. But those tend to be the ones that shape us most.”
She shifted, and in the mirror, I watched as she reached up and pulled the strap of her gown to the side, revealing her left shoulder. A scar ran across it, pale and jagged.
“This one,” she said, voice steady but low, “came during the rebellion. I was seventeen. A Keeper’s blade meant for someone else caught me across the shoulder. I couldn’t lift my arm for weeks.”
I turned in my seat, stunned. She’d always moved with such grace. I would’ve never known.
“I begged Malachi to heal it,” she continued, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “But he refused. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. That I hadn’t seen what I saw. That I hadn’t… done what I did.”
She met my gaze in the mirror then, eyes shining.
“He told me scars are the price we pay for waking up each day in a world that’s still standing. And that we owe it to the fallen to carry them.” She adjusted the strap back over her shoulder.
“So no,” she said gently, stepping back. “Even if I wanted to, this isn’t a dress I’m willing to alter. Not this one. You wear it as it is. And wear your scars just the same.”
A shadow shifted in the far corner of the mirror.
I turned, instincts flaring, and stepped in front of Lysara.
“Aurelia?” she asked, her voice taut behind me. “What is it?”
The answer came from the darkness.
“Forgive my intrusion.” Gabriel stepped into the candlelight, his silhouette sharp against the mist-filtered glow. But his expression—was raw. His silver eyes, brimming with unshed tears, locked on mine, then dropped to the gown.
A tremble passed through him, shoulders stiff with the effort of restraint. His lips parted, then closed. His throat worked around a word that wouldn’t come.
“That dress…” he began, voice barely audible. He took one hesitant step forward before stopping, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “It was her favorite.”
“Gabriel…” Lysara said gently, sorrow lacing every syllable.
“She laid it across the altar of the garden temple,” he said, his voice distant. “The one where we spent most of our time. She knew I would find it.” His voice broke. Tears silently fell down his face. “I waited there for hours, thinking she might return.”
He shook his head slowly. “But she never came. The moment I saw the gown draped over the altar, her pendant set beside it… I knew. And still, I waited. Hours, days—because some part of me refused to believe she wouldn’t return.”
He exhaled, long and low. “I never thought I would see it worn again.”
His gaze found mine. I didn’t know if the ache in my chest was mine or his, only that it felt unbearably heavy to carry in silence.
“You honor her,” he said at last, bowing his head.
From the folds of his cloak, he pulled something small, delicately cupped in his palm.
“I’ve carried this every day since…” His voice wavered. “Since she left.”
He stepped forward and held it out. A pendant—silver, worn smooth by time. A crescent moon pierced by a downward dagger, bright red, jeweled sangre miel flowers winding around the blade in full bloom.
Eryndis’s mark.
“For your hair,” he said, voice softer now. “If you’ll allow me.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
With gentle fingers, he lifted the pendant and tucked it gently above my braid, fastening it where Lysara had pinned the crown of flowers. His hands lingered, then fell away.
“I would like to attend the ball,” he said, stepping back, a thread of composure stitched into his voice again. “And if it isn’t too bold… would you do me the honor of a dance?”
My breath caught. A hundred things rose in my chest. Questions, memories, gratitude—and a grief that felt older than me. Not entirely mine, but carried all the same.
But when I looked at him, I saw none of those things reflected back. Only the echo of a vow he’d once sworn.
I reached for his hand. If Kaelith wanted me to play a role, then this would be mine. Not a pawn. Not a bride. Something more. Something chosen.
“Yes,” I said softly. “I would be honored.”