That evening, Lyria was laced into a gown borrowed from Aertis in a stunningly deep purple color. It was somewhat tight on Lyria, but as it was corseted, she could not tell if that was because of the design of the dress or because Aertis had laced it particularly well.
She took a deep breath as she entered the banquet hall, which was filled with the usual faces she had begun to get used to, mostly nobles, but also many of the delegation. Aertis had also twisted her hair up in some delicate fashion, and while it was beautiful, it felt unstable. Lyria hesitated to move her head, afraid of toppling it.
She glanced about gently, a little unsure. Aertis had refused, resolutely, to tell Lyria what her plan was. She was certain, probably correctly, that Lyria wouldn’t like it.
So Lyria nervo
