17. Danica

Danica

17

W ithErikandFaderynpreceding me, I step into the pavilion prepped with a slew of complaints forAxilya, ready to challenge her with every shred of vexation for her choice of wardrobe that seemed better suited to the pages of some fantasy novel than real battle.

However, my mental script grinds to a halt, words catching in my throat as my gaze settles on Her Ladyship.

There she is, perched among overstuffed cushions, the very picture of nonchalance—and clad in leathers that mirror my own, down to the last ornate detail.

I huff out an exasperated breath instead. Of course, she's rocking battle babe couture, too. Axilya notes my baffled double- take and arches one eloquent dark brow curiously but says nothing. With my heart thumping against my ribcage in time and my rising annoyance, I manage to marshal my emotions into something resembling a smile, though it stretches tautly across my face.

I catch the hint of a smirk dancing on Erik's usually stoic face, adding fuel to the fire churning inside me. I'm revved up, ready to call Axilya out for dressing me in what feels like a sartorial jab at my standing. But just as I square my shoulders for the inevitable showdown, something flickers at the edge of my sight, snagging my attention away from the brewing storm.

A plump and undeniably cute creature shifts its weight and suddenly stands alert. My eyes are instantly drawn to it—a creature resembling an oversized ferret yet unlike any I've ever seen, with glossy, shimmering fur that trickles colors like sunlight through a prism.

It's bedecked with a leash that glints with what I can only assume are gems, the epitome of exotic luxury. I can't help but let a genuine flicker of curiosity light up my strained expression as those wide, round eyes seem to extend an unspoken and furry olive branch amid the palpable tension.

"Aww, how cute!" I can't help exclaiming. "What fascinating little fuzzball is this?" I ask, gesturing toward the creature with a mix of amusement and wonder in my voice. "I mean, what is it exactly?"

Axilya smiles indulgently, stroking the creature's perked ears. "This little 'fuzzball,' as you so delicately address her, is a Coatl rescued long ago from poachers seeking their magic fur."

The little furball bounces over to me and rubs against my leg like a cat. "Ah, I see Syla approves your company," Axilya remarks mysteriously.

The little Coatl immediately bumps demandingly under my hand, rumbling a continuous musical purr that seems to vibrate through my wrist. Its fur proves deceptively coarse yet silken, gliding through my fingertips. "Who could ever entertain the thought of hurting something as adorable as this?" I ask aloud, bewilderment lacing my voice.

Axilya's expression turns sorrowful. "Many foolish mages and sorcerers seek pelts still, hoping to bolster waning talents," Axilya continues bitterly. "Magic is not obtained easily these days—despite the practice being utterly forbidden now, poachers persist in trying to locate hidden Coatl dens."

My heart squeezes imagining this rare being ending up some monster's trophy loot. Gently, I stroke behind its huge foxlike ears, smiling as Syla croons encouragement.

Axilya continues, "Coatl fur holds unique magic properties. In its pure form, coat pelts amplify spellcasting and healing tenfold for those trained to harness such forces. The Coatl retreated deep into the Northern Wilds after slaughter reduced their numbers critically. There is only a handful, and I still nurture friendships with the remaining packs." Fierce protectiveness briefly hardens Axilya's melodic voice.

I crouch down subtly to the priceless being, still purring under my touch. Those liquid amber eyes glint too full of wisdom and innocence alike. I gesture heatedly down at Syla, now curled in tranquil contentment over my knees. "This is an innocent soul. Only sick psychopaths destroy something so precious out of sheer greed!"

Axilya's smile holds profound sorrow. "You are still young for a mortal heart. Pray such tender outrage endures facing what is to come."

Drawing a quiet breath, I focus on the conversation ahead while noticing Erik's slight shift, a silent sentinel in my corner. While discussing the intricate dynamics of Coatl politicking holds its own allure, it's not the primary cause for concern during my audience with Lady Axilya.

I lock eyes with Axilya, pulling up my bootstraps for the fashion face-off. "Before we let the cuteness derail us," I start, my hand gesturing between the two of us and our matchy-matchy leather get-ups, "I wanted to circle back to the topic of my gear."

I can't help but note Faderyn's tactful discretion from the edge of my vision. I continue, my tone balancing on the knife's edge of diplomacy and exasperation. "No disrespect intended, but I'm not about to walk into any summit looking like I'm headed for an evening at some risqué establishment. Surely, there's an option that doesn't skimp on functionality—or fabric."

Amusement glitters in Axilya's sea-green eyes. "You find the battle garb unsuited for the role destiny carved for your shoulders?"

Erik makes an odd coughing noise, quickly masked behind one gloved fist. I swear steam erupts from my burning ears. Axilya examines imperiously pointed nails."Peace, small goddess. No soul dictates your fate or self save you alone. This truth transcends raiment." Her gaze holds fathomless compassion now. "Fear not; I've more decorous attire prepared for when you formally petition the Shadow Queen this eventide."

The sigh that slips out is reflexive, my tension deflating like a well-popped balloon. "Thank—wait, what?" Almost in the same breath, "Did you say tonight?"

The words trip a wire in me, setting off a firework show of feelings—hope lights up alongside jitters, with anticipation blazing its trail. Just the sheer idea of seeing Rhyland again, of being close enough to count the lashes framing his ocean-blue eyes, sends such a charge through me that I swear my heart's about to go rogue and burst right out of my ribcage.

"Indeed. After much delicate negotiation, the Shadow Queen will grant you a direct audience tonight. I do apologize for the delay—the Queen is fickle." She nearly rolls her eyes. "We merely need to swear temporary loyalty oaths, and she will permit speech regarding releasing your...detained friends." Axilya spreads elegant hands. "I advise accepting any terms provisionally so your petition stands unobstructed."

No shit, it's a delay. It has been almost two weeks! My elation curdles somewhat. I resist making promises lightly, but for Rhyland's sake, exceptions wait.

I exhale grudgingly. "Fine, I'll play polite princess for two seconds if it gets my guy walking free, no strings attached."

Already, my brain whirs with ideas for loopholes should Queen Bitch-face try twisting any sworn deals later against us. No way am I kneeling forever for faerie royalty!

Ever the alert guard dog, Faderyn steps over, emerald eyes unexpectedly gentle. "If blessings hold, your absent mate shall stand faithfully reunited before this day ends."

Once I bustRhylandout and rattle a few glitter-encrusted crowns, maybe these squabbling nobles will snap out of their fairy-tale feud and band together against the real boogeyman.

Wishful thinking? Sure, but hey, a girl's gotta have her fantasies, right?

First things first—there's some serious ass to kick and a certain Viking vampire to reclaim.

A quick rap at the tent pole heralds a young fae girl slipping through the entry flaps. Still early adolescent, her sparrow-brown hair is woven with strands of ivy. She offers a clumsy curtsy, holding a weighty satchel delicately stitched with opalescent thread.

"Lady Axilya bids you to don this attire for the assembly, honored guest. She awaits to escort you herself," she whispers, pressing the parcel into my hands with amused solemnity. A conspiratorial smirk dimples one round cheek playfully before she bobs another hasty bow and skips off, her gossamer dress glinting pink and lavender in the dappled sun.

"Not more haute couture surprises..." I grumble under my breath, hefting the bag curiously. What constitutes appropriate garb to wheedle prisoners from notoriously fickle Fae queens anyway?

Given Axilya's increasingly alarming predilection for fancy dress-up ensembles, I hesitate to inspect this latest offering. But duty's call proves stronger than vain misgivings. Unless I plan to attend butt naked, this mystery outfit awaits unveiling.

I peel back filmy layers of wrapping to uncover a gown that leaves me lost for words. The fabric dazzles with an iridescent glow, each movement reflecting a cascade of periwinkle, seafoam, and blush. The woven silver and gold bodice is sheer, leaving shoulders bare, while elegant gold vine cuffs replace traditional sleeves. The daring neckline is softly edged with white feathers. I pull it out completely, holding it up.

My admiration instantly subsides when I see the gown's full reveal. What I first took for modest side panels, in fact, leaves no stretch of skin disguised from collar to thigh on either side! This wispy excuse for courtly raiment would make lingerie models gasp! The dress is designed with elongated panels cascading from the waist, creating the illusion of a skirt yet offering scant concealment.

A sneeze risks utter catastrophe for the remaining shreds of my dignity. I gape stupidly for a long minute before outrage uncorks my frozen vocal cords.

"What fresh fashion hell..." I sputter helplessly. Surely, there is some mistake waiting for delivery here! "What part of diplomatic edict insists on baring my entire ass to spiteful Fae Royals??"

Holding up the scant garment with a flair of mock outrage, I cast a dramatic scowl across the room, intentionally steering clear of Erik, who looks like he's in danger of combusting from the shock of the scandalously slight "dress." He inches toward the tent flap with the stealth and caution of a man who knows danger—of the female indignation variety—when he sees it.

Where the hell am I going to put my daggers?

"This...this Swiss cheese cloth wouldn't cover a Barbie doll, much less any real curves!" My voice climbs several humiliated octaves.

Erik turns questioning glances in my direction but wisely volunteers no risky opinions.

What do they teach regarding propriety and presentation in Fancy Fae finishing schools??

"I swear if Axilya expects me to strut into delicate treaty negotiations with my cheeks flap flap, flapping in the breeze for ambiance, she can damn well throw on this joke herself!" I half scream to the heavens and any attending deities left listening.

To Erik's credit, he murmurs excuses about checking armor adjustments. I nod stiffly, listening to the brisk boot steps hastily retreating.

Steeling frazzled nerves, I slowly smooth imagined wrinkles from the scandalous silk.

Taking a few more deep, centering breaths, I finally don the garment. Damn, Fae likely never endured chafing underwires or pinched back fat—it hardly surprises me that their sense of style prioritizes maximum exposure over functionality.

I dare another downward glance, focusing on the teeny amount of fabric rather than imagining how much personal real estate stands utterly exposed. Even with staunch feminist principles, my breath catches...

Shimmery periwinkle and pink silks drift around like playful fronds scattered by forest winds. Meanwhile, the soft feathers brush around my breasts, almost but not quite covering them. Ditto for currently chilly nether regions barely curtained by sparkly faux foliage, one sneeze away from utter failure.

Peek-a-boo slits parting all the way up my thighs emphasize the ol' stems! At least trailing wisps of silver and gold lace swirl across ticklish skin, distracting from the drafted crotch kite flapping in the breeze situation.

I spin, making the diaphanous garb swirl with every move—one deep breath risks a wardrobe malfunction!

Steeling myself, I finally duck out into the afternoon rays from the tent's modest shelter. My jaw clenches, catching both men's startled double-takes.

Erik openly smirks while Faderyn suddenly pretends to be fascinated by imaginary lint on his tunic.

Wonderful.

Before either can comment on my new airflow-enhancing ensemble, I point a single, stern finger. My lips press into a thin line, underscoring the seriousness of my silent command, "Not. One. Word."

Erik responds with a nonchalant shrug, the picture of innocence, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes betrays his true feelings. "You look utterly striking as befits your station, Little Highness," he offers neutrally.

I puff out frustration, muttering, "Thanks," while playfully jabbing him with my elbow.

A musical chime heralds Lady Axilya sweeping into view, her eyes glimmering crystalline against the bright day. Naturally, Her Burlesque Highness dons similar diaphanous scraps draped across artery-freezing expanses of violet flesh!

With an eyebrow arched and hands on my hips, I address Axilya with biting sarcasm, "Ah, I see the heavenly exhibitionist committee approves of baring our entire buttcheeks to establish new world orders. Here's to hoping no treaty signings demand twerking rituals, hmm?"

One elegant ebony brow arches. "No idea what 'twerking' means, but such garb graces all court daughters. Nudity appeals equally, of course." Axilya's sharp features soften slightly, observing my discomfort, tugging awkwardly at diaphanous hems. "Come, the day hastens onward—we must be off ere the convocation commences without our shining delegate."

Biting my tongue against another word volcano, I gather yards of slippery silk, trying not to tear Axilya's artsy scrap pile, and carefully hoist myself up into the carriage.