Fyra (First Draft)

Ten

Fyra's heart constricted as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. The dress was simple but elegant, an off-white that was nearly beige. It's skirts fell to the floor in cresting waves, and the bodice bore a swirling pattern embroidered by an expert hand. When she looked in the mirror, she didn't see herself.

She saw whispers, secrets, dangers that brought her back to times half remembered, back to memories that rattled in her brain and made her wrists throb with the ghost of pain.

And she also saw what necessity had forced her to become. Her frame was petite, even for a girl, but her body was not smooth like the polished ladies of court. Her body was a map of scars, not only on her hands but running down her back as well. Peaks of hard muscle adorned her arms and legs, formed running through slums and pulling herself over buildings. Because of the proper food in the castle, she was not as malnourished as she had been once, but she could still remember the aching pit of hunger that once ate away at her constantly.

She bit back the bitterness that rose in her throat, and rubbed her wrist, banishing the scenes that playing again and again in her head. She swallowed, telling the seamstress who was still prodding and poking at her that the gown would do fine for the upcoming ball.

While the dress was beautiful, it wasn't something to be worn in frivolity. It was armor, and she would be fighting a war full of facades and dancing, outer beauty and inner demons. Any one person could be her downfall, in the battle that was a ball.

Fyra pulled the dress over her head. She handed it to the seamstress, Estelle, who gave her a soft smile. Estelle was much older than she.

"Did you make this?" Asked Fyra.

"I did, Lady, the prince put in the order for a ballgown, but didn't leave any specific preferences. I heard you were of Malorian descent and chose the design of the gown myself."

"It's perfect."

Of course Cirian had been behind the seamstress appearance the othe mr day, measuring her, and now, a gown in hand. Fyra had seen him and spoken to him in the past few days since witnessing the spar that changed everything, but she had been distant. All the same, Cirian hadn't mentioned the ball or the way she had ran from the training grounds as if she had seen a ghost. And what a ghost she had seen. For that she was grateful.

Fyra had never enjoyed social events, though they were commonplace in another lifetime that had once been hers. She always felt ill at ease, like everyone in the room knew something she didn't, had some poise and dignity she could never manage to muster. And much worse, she hated dancing. It wasn't as if she lacked the grace to dance, her mother had taught her personally since she was small. Fyra simply didn't enjoy it. At the last ball she attended, she had been young enough to avoid any dancing obligation.

"The dress suits you, Lady." Said Estelle, not seeming to notice the shadows dancing in Fyra's eyes.

Fyra smiled softly. "Thank you Estelle, but you needn't bother with titles and such. 'Fyra' will do."

"It is my pleasure, and if you need anything, please send a maid down." And then she picked up her baskets and was gone.

Fyra pulled of the drawers and chemise that were word under the dress searching through the dresser for more practical clothes. She eventually settled on a pair of dark trousers and a loose fitting tunic.

She briefly wondered what had happened to the clothes that she had worn in the dungeons. She had rather liked that tunic. Her boots had been at the foot of her bed when she returned, mercifully.

She had been given those boots by Jessa, the woman who cared for her a brief time and taught her how to steal. And how to avoid being caught. Jess had been the one who rebuilt her spirit after she had been so ready to die after the Redmont mines.

The mines were a cruel and desolate place, a place without hope or light. At the age of sixteen, soldiers cut her hair with the edge of a knife, branded her left forearm with the royal crest, marking her as property, and threw her into the darkness.

Though now concealed with a simple masking rune, the mark, a harsh silhouette of an Acerian wolf's head with an intricate "S" swirling through it, still burned from time to time. 

"Sapientia", the royal family's original purpose, motto. Meaning "wisdom" in the old language. While the first sovereigns may have striven to be wise, the current sovereign of Aceria was not wise, not in the way his ancestors intended.

And she would have to face the cruel King, one cause of her suffering, at the battle that was the Harvest Ball.

A/N: Thank you to all my patient readers... I told you I would have more time to write but not only was I facing a huge writers block, school started...ugh. So I am sorry if updates take a while. :(

The wolf thing is the royal crest of the Acerian royal family if you didn't catch that... And the "old language" will just be Latin on Google Translate.

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