Moth to a Flame

Merry Christmas, Andrea!

Once upon a time, there was a girl in a tower, a girl who bled in the dust of souls, who glowed like a thousand suns. And this girl, she was a princess like no other, trained in combat, deadly with a sword, but deadlier if you let her close. She killed best from the inside, as she'd proven to her favourite of the gods, with fingertips like branding irons. Her light magic didn't take kindly to the dark. Of course, it was no prince that saved the god, but a killer, one with more blood on her fingertips than the princess had fire.

She supposed, for that bit, she'd have been the wicked witch, though now, back in her tower, she was reminded of why she loathed the role of the princess. Princesses were certainly beautiful, and to this she was no exception, with sunset eyes, and a fall of pastel pink hair. Her stature was certainly that of just a princess, so small she'd certainly be no trouble for a prince to carry. What she loathed of being a princess was that it was ever the witch who made the story, made the choices and the princess was just pulled around, as a trinket for the prince, an object for the witch's hatred. She was never real. She never got to choose.

The princess was helpless against her father, the Golden Lord, Auratus. If he said she required another soul in her veins, or that she was to be the doll in the darkest of closets, or even that she was to dress up and go to the ball, as he had in this case, he owned her in all ways, and didn't take kindly to the notion of princes climbing her tower. But if the king of the Light required his advisor's presence at the ball, who was the Golden Lord to deny him, to not bring his favourite princess bound like a captive in her corset.

That was how Princess Tacet found herself interrupted. She'd been dreaming with her eyes open, telling herself little stories about what she would do the next time her father let her out, even if she knew that it was unlikely he ever would. Not until the war, when he required her to fight at his side. It was a guard at the door, the first other woman she'd set eyes on since her return home, and how she'd been starved for it. The guard was virtually indistinguishable from her male counterparts, but for a larger chest and a slimmer waist, which Tacet found oddly comforting.

The princess could not get close to another guard. She couldn't take that. So she stood at the door and awaited the guard's request, knowing it was either an exchange, and more fire to be added to her veins, another onslaught of screaming souls, or it was that she hadn't performed adequately in her training and was to be punished. It couldn't be that. Wednesdays were swordplay, and Leilah—thirty six had taught her well.

The guars spoke, voice muffled and mechanized by her helmet, "King Helios requests your presence at a ball in two hours. Lord Auratus has instructed me to assist you in dressing."

She blanched, thinking of the marks on her body the guard would invariably see: scars all down her arms for exchanges of power, bruises on her waist and legs form noncompliance. But she supposed her father had willed it, so she began to strip, watching her reflection in the guard's metallic visor. The princess was a damaged girl, from her fried hair to the bruises she'd deserved for her hesitation the last time she was told she was getting a little more power. Over her undergarments went a thin, silky, strapless white dress, gold at the edges, like her father would choose. White and gold were Lyran colours, after all.

Next came a corset, white with gold lace and embellishments, slipped over her dress, tightened like a serpent about the princess' waist binding her up like a captive. She took one deep breath and then only breathy gasps as her waist cinched into a perfect hourglass. The cold, metal plates of the guard's gloves brushed her skin and she laced her in, before getting down on her knees. Tacet had had a god kneel for her, though this time it was only to offer her a pair of slippers—crystal, naturally.