Page 90 of Stolen
The air shifts with the weight of her words.
Take.
Destroy.
God. That’s what Alaric is facing right now.
And I’m standing here, wrapped in a silk shift, marked by this realm’s magic like a prize, while the man who claimed me—who I have irrevocably fallen for—walks into something he might not come back from.
No.
No, I can’t just stand here like a decoration in a fairytale tower.
I straighten my shoulders. “Will you help me find something else to wear?”
Shade looks surprised. “Something else?”
I nod once. “As much as I love the traditional garb of Nightfall, I can’t just sit in a dress while Alaric is out there fighting a battle. I need to do something.”
There’s a beat of hesitation.
Then, softly, “Yes, Lady Jules.”
She crosses the room quickly and presses her hand to a portion of the wall. A soft hum fills the air.
Stone shimmers, rippling like water, and a door appears that hadn’t been there before.
“This is your closet,” she says, stepping inside with a cautious glance. “You only have to think about what you need, and it will appear.”
I follow her in.
And immediately stop.
Rows of gowns—each one more exquisite than the last—hang from gleaming silver rods that float a few feet above the ground.
The air smells like crushed petals and starlight, and every surface glows faintly with magic.
The shoes alone could fill an entire boutique.
I could stay here for hours.
But not now.
I walk deeper, scanning past shimmering ballgowns and embroidered robes until I find what I’m looking for—a section hung with clothing in deep tones, fitted pants, belted tunics, cloaks, and boots.
Familiar. Practical.
The kind of gear I wore when riding Alaric’s Dragon form.
“Lady Jules?” Shade asks nervously.
“These are perfect,” I say firmly, and begin to get dressed, shedding the delicate silk dress and pulling on a pair of leather pants and a sturdy tunic cinched at the waist with a belt.
I spot a long coat—lined in what looks like midnight velvet and clasped with silver—and shrug it on, the weight of it grounding me.
Shade still fidgets in the doorway, wringing her hands. “Forgive me, Lady Jules, but a, a Lady of the keep doesn’t usually?—”
“I’m not really a traditional Lady of the keep, am I?” I say, tugging my boots on and turning to face her.
