Page 39 of Dark Fate

Letting out a chuckle that borders on nervous collapse—because hey, at this point, what's one more jaunt down the rabbit hole?—I quickly slap some herbal goop into my hair, scrubbing fiercely. After all, there's no telling when the Turbo Crown 3000 will decide it's time to make a comeback.

Stepping out from the spring's embrace, I enfold myself in a linen towel that seems to hold the very warmth of the sun. Every fiber is infused with an herbal scent that evokes memories of lazy breezes dancing through fields of wildflowers—a remnant of summertime captured in cloth.

My hands stumble upon a stash of supplies nearby, and among them, my fingers encounter the smooth curve of an antler comb. I can't help but give it a test run through my damp hair, and to my amazement, it moves as though charmed, parting tangles like a whispered secret.

These tools of fae design redefine the notion of hair care from a mere routine to something of enchantment — this comb achieves in moments what my mundane brushes back home could only accomplish through arduous, painful efforts.

As I approach where my clothes lie in a precise fold, my anticipation abruptly gives way to a mix of shock and indignation.

There, as if taunting me, is the ensemble of black leather that clasps and confines in a manner better suited for an underground fantasy than any practical combat attire.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter, the words falling right out of my slack-jawed mouth. Seriously, I'm starting to think a scratchy, ill-fitting burlap sack might be a preferable option!

As if on cue, the sound of Erik and Faderyn's laughter seeps through the leaves, their mirth starkly contrasting with my vexation. I can't help but roll my eyes."Oh, yeah, knee-slapper, guys! Yuck it up!" I lob back at them, my tone dripping with sarcasm as I throw what is probably the most undignified hand gesture I can muster in the direction of those unseen snickerers.

Figures their amusement only grows, their chuckles morphing into full-throated laughs as I stand here, debating the lesser of two evils: forge ahead in pseudo-bondage couture or go makeshift hermit.

"Lady Axilya insisted those leathers flatter your coloring and status most dashingly," Faderyn supplies diplomatically once choking subsides.

Cursing under my breath, I wriggle awkwardly into the clingy battle suit again, hopping inelegantly to peel wet skin from constricting pants.

Yanking the sculpted leather bustier into place, I holler over one shoulder. "I swear Axilya receives a personalized burning bag of dog shit for these outfits..."

Amid my irritation over the incrediblyridiculous getups I keep being shoehorned into, the sumptuous spread laid out for breakfast momentarily sidelines me.

Without reservation, I heap my plate with delectable offerings, paying no mind as the juice from a piece of exotic purple fruit leaves a vibrant mark on my skin. My stomach growls with approval as I take in the bounty—crusty, warm bread that clouds the air with its comforting aroma straight from the camp ovens; bowls filled with fruits of colors so vivid they seem plucked from dreams; pots of rich, pearly butter; and savory roasted meat that promises satisfaction with every bite. The taste is a festival of sensations; sweetness duels with tartness, all laced with subtle spices that could very well be a fae secret.

My eagerness to indulge betrays any sense of dining decorum, as I'm already reaching for seconds—or thirds?—before properly savoring what's already in my mouth. Erik and Faderyn try to disguise their amusement with discreetly placed hands as they witness my voracious onslaught of the meal.

I have never been the type to play coy with a plate of food, hence the curves. I guess I'm not your poster girl for the waif look—and that's perfectly fine.

I spear another chunk of the enigmatic roasted meat a little more forcefully than necessary, my fork screeching against the tin tray in a way that soulfully harmonizes with my mood. The utensil might be another casualty of my morning's frustration.

I glance up to see Erik and Faderyn politely training their eyes on their breakfasts across the table. But twitching lips give away barely contained glee.

I softly kick Erik's shin beneath the table without looking up from aggressively sawing stringy meat portions. "Laugh it up, boys. We'll see if anyone grins when I accidentally set their eyebrows on fire later."

Erik's response is to wipe his expression clean, sculpting it into a mask of great gravity—still, those betraying silver eyes of his twinkle with untamed hilarity betraying his feigned sobriety.

They say eyes are windows to the soul, and right now, his are open curtains to a comedy.

"You seem vexed still over garb befitting your station. Was the bath not soothing then?" He keeps admirable composure even as I bare teeth next bite.

"Oh, I got sparkly clean, alright. But it's hard to feel Zen-like peace when you constantly worry your rack's gonna spill out for the world anytime you breathe too deep," I retort, gulping my coffee.

Shoving away my plate, I fix Faderyn with my most intimidating scowl. "Please inform Her Sparkly Maj that if she tries outfitting me in stripper boots next, I'll shove them right up her—"

"I shall inform Lady Axilya that you most appreciate her curated battle attire," Faderyn interrupts smoothly.

Erik suddenly develops a violent coughing fit. I don't buy for one instant.

I snort disbelievingly into my drink. "What time's my glittering appointment to discuss diplomatic fashion torture and maybe rescuing my man again?"

It's time to give Axilya a piece of my mind!

As I'm voicing my umpteenth complaint about impractical questing wear, I'm startled when the bench suddenly dips beside me. I glance over to see a tiny fae boy, no more than six years old, staring unabashedly with those jewel-bright eyes so common here.

"Hello," I greet curiously when the silent awe stretches longer. His cute, round little face smiles up at me with a mop of oak-leaf hair.

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