Metheea had never liked mirrors.
Tonight, she hated them.
Three tall panels of polished glass stood around her like silent judges, catching her reflection from every angle as servants moved in and out of her room. Candlelight turned the gold embroidery on her gown into liquid fire. Silver threads traced constellations along the neckline and sleeves, drawing the eye toward the bare column of her throat.
The gown hugged her waist and hips before spilling into a sweep of soft fabric behind her. It moved when she breathed. It looked effortless. It felt like armor.
Kalistra stepped back and tilted her head. "You look beautiful, Your Highness."
Metheea tried not to flinch at the words. Beautiful. The last time someone had said that, she had been half-dragon, half-mad, and pressed against Azrayel's chest.
She smoothed her palms over the skirt, more to ground herself than to fix anything. "It is too much."
