𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐒 𝐄 𝐕 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐄 𝐍

𝐀 𝐆𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧

 Briéa shifts in front of the mirror in her room trying to convince herself the pale yellow dress Silene sent over compliments her.

She's spent the week waiting for Silene to whisk her away and lure Briéa into doing her bidding. But nothing. Not even when Silene dragged Briéa away from Reihan to give her a tour of their winter garden. More talk of their snowdrop lilies than any job.

Now she wonders if the dress is part of whatever plan the matriarch's devised. Whittle Briéa down enough that her spirit breaks. The yellow may be an ugly color on her, but her spirit is nowhere near broken.

The fit of the dress itself is fine, although it'd hardly be acceptable if the party were outside in the snow. But according to the note that came with the package, Silene thought the style would 'look simply ravishing' on Briéa. The silk of the dress is held up by thin straps. Most of her back is left bare and the entirety of her left leg is exposed by the slit that reaches up her side. The deep neckline stops just beneath her breasts.

There's a faint crease in the fabric by her one-covered leg. She managed to figure out a way to keep her dagger inconspicuously strapped to her right thigh. Everyone attending tonight may be under the guise Briéa is nothing more than the heir to a Ywethese salt business, but that isn't enough for her to feel safe without her cham.

With an exasperated sigh, Briéa's hands fall to her hips, unable to accept the gods awful yellow color.

"I just might've been able to settle for emerald Silene," she mutters, sliding a hand under the slit of her dress until her fingers grasp the hilt of her dagger. The familiar, comforting, thrum of power waits for her command. It sends a pleasing shiver through her. She's missed the feel of it. Briéa keeps her focus on the reflection in the mirror as she drags a finger through the air, watching as the dress fades into a deep, stunning crimson. "But I don't think looking like a puddle of piss suits me all that well."

There.

Now she feels as if she's wearing her armor. Gods, she forgot how much she loves the color until she sees it on her body now. It contrasts so perfectly against her bronze skin and gives her dark eyes a kind of depth only crimson gives.

She turns to look over her shoulder. Earlier, a cadre of servant women attended to her. They bathed her, doused her in oils and perfumes, washing her clean, getting her all done up. Impressively, they managed to conceal her tattoos and a number of her scars with a mixture of tinted creams and powders. But this body doesn't look like hers. This one is too...clean. Her scars are her story, this skin isn't hers.

But tonight she is not Briéa Terrano, here she is Florentina Azari. The daughter of a nobleman who's probably never so much as nicked the tip of her finger on a blade.

A brief knock at the door gives Briéa hardly any time before Reihan waltzes in, looking beautiful in a jeweled blush gown. Tonight, she wears Makorov silver in her hair, threads of it weaved through her brown curls. When she sees Briéa she laughs and gives a slow applause.

Briéa grins, offering a small, slightly sultry twirl. "Too predictable?" Reihan snorts and shakes her head.

"Not to me, perhaps to Madame Silene," she drawls. Briéa laughs and goes to link her arm with Reihan's. "But where's the fun in being predictable?" Briéa squints and looks around the room, putting on a show.

"Huh, I can't find it."

Reihan throws her head back with a laugh, the distant conversations of the party mingling with the sound.