Lyra couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d dressed her as a completely different person.
The women who came at dawn to prepare her didn’t ask for permission. They entered quietly and efficiently, carrying trays of fabric with jewelry and oils that smelled of citrus and spice. They spoke in a low tone, their voices hushed as if in reverence to a queen, rather than the glorified slave she remained beneath the silk.
Kaela sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, watching them primp and fawn over Lyra with wide eyes.
“They’re making you look like a princess,” she whispered.
“A Luna,” one of them corrected sternly before going back to Lyra’s hair.
Lyra met Kaela’s gaze in the mirror.
“I’m being made presentable,” she corrected gently, unsure how else to word the predicament they we
