Page 42 of Dark Fate

My admiration instantly subsides when I see the gown's full reveal. What I first took for modest side panels, in fact, leaves no stretch of skin disguised from collar to thigh on either side! This wispy excuse for courtly raiment would make lingerie models gasp! The dress is designed with elongated panels cascading from the waist, creating the illusion of a skirt yet offering scant concealment.

A sneeze risks utter catastrophe for the remaining shreds of my dignity. I gape stupidly for a long minute before outrage uncorks my frozen vocal cords.

"What fresh fashion hell..." I sputter helplessly. Surely, there is some mistake waiting for delivery here! "What part of diplomatic edict insists on baring my entire ass to spiteful Fae Royals??"

Holding up the scant garment with a flair of mock outrage, I cast a dramatic scowl across the room, intentionally steering clear of Erik, who looks like he's in danger of combusting from the shock of the scandalously slight "dress." He inches toward the tent flap with the stealth and caution of a man who knows danger—of the female indignation variety—when he sees it.

Where the hell am I going to put my daggers?

"This...this Swiss cheese cloth wouldn't cover a Barbie doll, much less any real curves!" My voice climbs several humiliated octaves.

Erik turns questioning glances in my direction but wisely volunteers no risky opinions.

What do they teach regarding propriety and presentation in Fancy Fae finishing schools??

"I swear if Axilya expects me to strut into delicate treaty negotiations with my cheeks flap flap, flapping in the breeze for ambiance, she can damn well throw on this joke herself!" I half scream to the heavens and any attending deities left listening.

To Erik's credit, he murmurs excuses about checking armor adjustments. I nod stiffly, listening to the brisk boot steps hastily retreating.

Steeling frazzled nerves, I slowly smooth imagined wrinkles from the scandalous silk.

Taking a few more deep, centering breaths, I finally don the garment. Damn, Fae likely never endured chafing underwires or pinched back fat—it hardly surprises me that their sense of style prioritizes maximum exposure over functionality.

I dare another downward glance, focusing on the teeny amount of fabric rather than imagining how much personal real estate stands utterly exposed. Even with staunch feminist principles, my breath catches...

Shimmery periwinkle and pink silks drift around like playful fronds scattered by forest winds. Meanwhile, the soft feathers brush around my breasts, almost but not quite covering them. Ditto for currently chilly nether regions barely curtained by sparkly faux foliage, one sneeze away from utter failure.

Peek-a-boo slits parting all the way up my thighs emphasize the ol' stems! At least trailing wisps of silver and gold lace swirl across ticklish skin, distracting from the drafted crotch kite flapping in the breeze situation.

I spin, making the diaphanous garb swirl with every move—one deep breath risks a wardrobe malfunction!

Steeling myself, I finally duck out into the afternoon rays from the tent's modest shelter. My jaw clenches, catching both men's startled double-takes.

Erik openly smirks while Faderyn suddenly pretends to be fascinated by imaginary lint on his tunic.

Wonderful.

Before either can comment on my new airflow-enhancing ensemble, I point a single, stern finger. My lips press into a thin line, underscoring the seriousness of my silent command, "Not. One. Word."

Erik responds with a nonchalant shrug, the picture of innocence, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes betrays his true feelings. "You look utterly striking as befits your station, Little Highness," he offers neutrally.

I puff out frustration, muttering, "Thanks," while playfully jabbing him with my elbow.

A musical chime heralds Lady Axilya sweeping into view, her eyes glimmering crystalline against the bright day. Naturally, Her Burlesque Highness dons similar diaphanous scraps draped across artery-freezing expanses of violet flesh!

With an eyebrow arched and hands on my hips, I address Axilya with biting sarcasm, "Ah, I see the heavenly exhibitionist committee approves of baring our entire buttcheeks to establish new world orders. Here's to hoping no treaty signings demand twerking rituals, hmm?"

One elegant ebony brow arches. "No idea what 'twerking' means, but such garb graces all court daughters. Nudity appeals equally, of course." Axilya's sharp features soften slightly, observing my discomfort, tugging awkwardly at diaphanous hems. "Come, the day hastens onward—we must be off ere the convocation commences without our shining delegate."

Biting my tongue against another word volcano, I gather yards of slippery silk, trying not to tear Axilya's artsy scrap pile, and carefully hoist myself up into the carriage.

Rhyland

18

"Damn these ancient scribbles to hell!"Meadowsnarls, hurling down the moldering parchment pages that nearly disintegrate under her touch. Her jerky movements stir up choking plumes of dust, swirling through the stale cave air. "Is it really so hard for dead crackpot wizards to write clearly?" she bitches loudly, viciously kicking a loose stone. It clatters against the rough walls, the racket hitting my throbbing skull like a hammer.

Nearly two weeks since we broke free feels like an eternity in this godforsaken cave. My nails dig into my palms, trying to hold onto the last threads of patience. Squashing this scrawny faerie's neck might offer fleeting release but won't break the curse choking the life out of me.

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