Drothiker

36.

A dress was consigned to Syrene's suite for the ball—she didn't know whether the queen supposed a skimpy dress would put Syrene at unease, but the dress was more of a thin cloth than a dress.

It was black silk, sleeveless gown, forming a vee at chest down to her stomach, baring her midriff and the rims of her breasts. A side of its skirt was cut, veiling and unveiling Syrene's leg as she moved. Thankfully, the back was not so revealing—her whip scars were left concealed. Had the queen known them ...

Syrene didn't finish that thought.

A maid, Xagda, was sent, too, to do Syrene's makeup. And whatever mejest the woman had held, she'd erased Syrene's dark circles, including the scars at her neck and arms. When panic had ripped into Syrene, Xagda had said they would reoccur in a few hours.

Syrene had released a long breath and thanked her.

She supposed Felset didn't wish the world to know this year's contestant had once been Jegvr's convict, didn't wish to lend them a hint that a slave was being offered freedom by the Enchanted Queen.

The maid had painted Syrene's lips crimson, Syrene had cringed at the cosmetics—she'd never worn any before—they felt as if she was wearing a second skin. But in the end, Syrene had admired herself in the mirror for minutes, not recognizing the woman in the reflection. Xagda had laughed.

She'd handed Syrene a black mask—cautioning her to not take it off the whole night. It obscured her human scent, would keep her from the predators who deemed Grestel weak and might choose to prey.

Ferouzeh had been her escort today, and the healer had blinked when she'd sighted Syrene. At the smooth skin of her arms and neck.

"Had your death not seemed so near," Ferouzeh had said, "I might have asked you to have dinner with me sometime."

Syrene had laughed, completely flouting the churning in her gut. Duel was tomorrow—it would all end tomorrow—

On their way, Ferouzeh asked, "Has the sorceress awoken?"

Syrene shook her head, and sighed.

"Otsatyas, what did Azryle do to her?"

Syrene kept herself stolid. She hadn't used her mejest in years and years, wasn't entirely confident whether Deisn would stir at all. Wielding lightning was a wholly different challenge—always had been, but the bolts she'd sent down Deisn's spine hadn't been that lethal. At least she hoped so.

The healer led Syrene to an empty courtyard; waltz music was boisterous and blaring here. Cool wind caressed her skin, her midriff, seeped in her hair ... Syrene shuddered inwardly, shaking off that indescribable unease groping her. She was confused for only a moment before Azryle's words retraced to her ears and she looked up.

There.

People were dancing on the vast invisible floor Ryle had formed in the sky—so vast that the crowd stretched and stretched until it disappeared into the dark horizon. Light flashed with their steps, wherever they pressed, looking like swelling bright stars.

From here, she could make out no one's face ... definitely not Maycusen's beautiful one. Please me fine, Starflame, Syrene pleaded quietly.

As they made for the other end of the courtyard, Syrene could make out something very bright—like small moons, or oversized witchglows—pacing up and down and back again diagonally, as swift as the falling stars.