A Court of Dusk and Shadows

CHAPTER ELEVEN: DANGEROUS GAMES

Confusion still swirled within Ileana, battling the fiery anger ignited by Azriel's sudden coldness. What's wrong with me? Get a grip, Ileana! His mood swings didn't deserve this strange turmoil brewing inside her. Her reaction was unbecoming of any princess. But the Shadowsinger had this bizarre tendency to crack her carefully maintained composure, reducing her to childish outbursts and leaving her with a lingering frustration she didn't understand. He was infuriating, captivating...dangerous to her peace of mind in a way no opponent in the sparring ring had ever been.

"Princess?" A gentle knock on the door roused her from the silent contemplation. Feyre's soft voice called through the door. "May I come in?"

Ileana turned, grateful for the interruption. "Of course. Come in, it's open!"

As Feyre entered the room, Ileana blinked, momentarily taken aback by the transformation. Gone was the warm, approachable High Lady she'd come to know. In her place stood a vision of icy elegance, an embodiment of the very power Feyre wielded with such grace.

Her golden hair, usually worn loose in sun-kissed waves, was now intricately braided and pinned high, revealing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the fierce set of her jawline. A dress of midnight blue clung to her curves, shimmering with an otherworldly sheen that seemed to capture the moonlight itself. It plunged low, showcasing the delicate swan-like curve of her neck and the generous expanse of her chest, leaving little to the imagination.

But it wasn't the dress itself that commanded attention; it was the way Feyre wore it. She moved with a predator's grace; every step imbued with quiet confidence and an underlying hint of danger. Her usually playful blue-grey eyes were now pools of molten steel, reflecting the sharp glint of the obsidian earrings adorning her ears. A dark red, almost vampiric, shade adorned her lips, adding a touch of sensuality to her otherwise fierce demeanor.

Ileana couldn't help but smile, a knowing glint entering her own eyes. She thought of Bryce and how she would absolutely adore the new persona Feyre was rocking. It wasn't just the clothes or the makeup; it was the aura, the unspoken promise of power held tightly in check. Ileana saw, for the first time, the warrior beneath the compassionate leader, and a thrill of nervous excitement pulsed through her veins.

Feyre's gaze swept over the bursting closet, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Rhys wasn't kidding with the wardrobe, was he?"

Ileana inclined her head, turning back to the selection of gowns before her. Silks, laces, tulle—you name it, and it was there in varying shades of black, blue, silver, and purple. "Maybe I should just wear the Illyrian leathers."

"Where we're going, you're gonna be facing a different kind of battle. One that requires a little more . . . discretion. What about that one?"

Feyre pointed to a black gown, and Ileana pulled it out. It was no ordinary garment. It seemed to drink in the light. Crafted from midnight-black fabric, it flowed and whispered like liquid shadows. The bodice hugged her curves with precision. When the dress moved, tiny diamonds and intricate silver embroidery caught the light, refracting it into shimmering splendor.

"Perfect," Feyre breathed, her eyes widening in appreciation. "That dress practically declares 'don't mess with me.'"

Ileana slipped into the gown, the luxurious fabric cool against her skin. Feyre was right—it wasn't just clothing; it was armor, a silent declaration of intent. "What else can I expect at the meeting?" she asked.

The High Lady's expression turned serious. "The Hewn City is the opposite of Velaris. It runs on fear, and cruelty is currency. Some call it the Court of Nightmares, and the name is quite accurate."