Extra Chapter: We All Have Embarrassing Moments [18+ Explicit — Content Warning] vol 2

The carriage wheels had stopped echoing against the cobblestones nearly an hour ago, but Hallah's heart hadn't gotten the message. It still hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape—though whether from the lingering stress of navigating Verdantis's merchant district with her mother or from the memory of the dress fitting, she couldn't say.

The dress was a problem.

Not the dress itself—that was currently hanging in the wardrobe of her family's rooms in the Royal Castle, the white lace shimmering in the firelight, the gold trim catching the glow in delicate threads that traced Nordic knotwork along the hem and hood. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship from the half-elf proprietress's little shop, the hooded gown fitted perfectly to Hallah's frame, the bodice hugging her curves without clinging, the skirt falling in layers that would swirl when she danced.

If she danced. If she worked up the nerve to ask him.

No, the problem was what wearing it meant. The Academy's end-of-year ball. The question she hadn't asked. The answer she was terrified to hear.

Hallah flopped backward onto her bed. The sitting area beyond the bedroom door was empty—she'd heard Mother leave half an hour ago, something about consulting with the castle gardener about winter rose arrangements. Father was in one of his endless meetings with the King—something about trade tariffs and Kharzun border tensions, the kind of political theater that would keep Brant Ironhand occupied for hours.

She was alone. The dress waited. The ball loomed in two days like a storm on the horizon. And her skin felt two sizes too small, humming with a restless energy that had nothing to do with mana and everything to do with the black-haired, pale-blue-eyed prince who wore gold-rimmed glasses and looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

The shopping trip had been torture. Eira had been delighted by the half-elf's shop, had insisted on the fitting, had chattered about the Nordic styling and how it suited Hallah's bearing. Hallah had stood in the private chamber while the proprietress measured and pinned, her mother's eyes knowing and warm. She'd examined her reflection in the mirror—the white lace against her skin, the gold trim catching the light, the hood that would frame her face like a moon against snow.

She'd thought about Lucan seeing her in it. Had thought about his reaction. Had imagined his fingers reaching out to trace the gold knotwork, his pale blue eyes flecked with gold darkening with appreciation.

She'd come home with the dress in a parcel, her mother humming a Sylvareth tune, and now the thing sat in her wardrobe like an accusation. Like a promise.

Second time, Hallah reminded herself, shucking off her tunic, then her trousers, then—hesitating only a moment—her smallclothes. Not the first. You've done this before. You know the math. You know it's not a mistake.

But the first time had been different. One year ago—last winter—triggered by Lucan's look at that family dinner, by Mother's pointed questions, by the way he'd watched her across the table like she was the only star in his sky. She'd been discovering this body then—upgraded, she'd called it, Bear's pragmatism shining through even in her most vulnerable moment. That had been exploration. Learning the terrain. Figuring out that the equipment was different but the wiring was surprisingly compatible.

This was different. This was hunger.

Hallah slid beneath the sheets—habit, even alone—and let her hands trace the familiar curves. The strength in her thighs from sword training, the muscle dense and responsive. The softness of her stomach that no amount of Paladin conditioning could fully harden. The sensitivity of her breasts, already tightening as her breath came faster, the nipples pebbling against the linen.

Lucan.

His name entered her mind unbidden, and she didn't push it away. Black hair falling across his forehead as he bent over a grimoire in the Academy library, those elegant fingers tracing ancient sigils. Pale blue eyes flecked with gold darkening when he looked at her. The way his voice dropped an octave when they were alone, all the formal "Lady Hallah" stripping away until she was just Hallah and he was just Lucan and the space between them crackled like lightning before the strike.

She remembered the way he'd looked at her during that dinner a year ago—how he'd sat across from her, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the candlelight, his gaze intent and hungry. How Mother had noticed. How everyone had noticed.

Hallah's hand drifted lower, past the softness of her stomach, past the curve of her hip, and found the already-slick heat between her thighs. She was wet—had been since she'd thought about the ball, about asking him, about what his mouth would feel like against hers if he said yes. The arousal coated her fingers as she traced the outer folds, spreading the moisture in slow, teasing circles that made her hips twitch involuntarily.

If he said yes.

Her fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex, and she gasped. Loud. Too loud, some part of her noted, but that part was drowning under the rising tide of sensation, the coiling heat that started in her belly and spread outward like wildfire through her veins. She applied gentle pressure, just enough to make her breath hitch, just enough to send sparks dancing up her spine.

"Lucan," she whispered, testing the sound of it, and even that was too loud, her voice cracking with the strain of holding back. "Fuck, Lucan—"

She worked herself with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she needed, but this time she took it slow, drawing out the pleasure instead of rushing toward it. This wasn't gentle exploration anymore. This wasn't the tentative touching of a year ago, when she'd still been surprised by the sensitivity, still learning the rhythm. This was desperate, grinding need, building toward something that had been tightening in her chest for weeks—months—a full year of wanting and denying and wanting again.

She imagined his hands instead of hers. Those long, elegant fingers that could weave complex spell matrices tracing patterns on her skin instead. She imagined them calloused from sword work and spell-casting, rougher than they looked, sliding up her inner thighs with agonizing patience. She imagined his mouth, that serious mouth that rarely smiled but when it did—gods, when it did—covering hers, then moving lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts.

She imagined his black hair spread across her thighs as he settled between them, his pale blue eyes flecked with gold looking up at her with dark hunger, watching her face as he—

"Ah!" The sound tore out of her as she found the right angle, the right pressure, her hips bucking against her hand with a mind of their own. The sheets tangled around her legs, trapping her, and she didn't care, couldn't care, because the pleasure was building now, each stroke driving her higher.

She was being loud. She knew she was being loud—some distant part of her brain that hadn't been drowned in endorphins was screaming at her to quiet down, to remember where she was, to remember that her parents were in the castle and walls in these old structures were thinner than they appeared. But the other part of her, the part that had been holding back for a year, didn't give a damn about volume.

"Lucan," she gasped, her voice rising, breaking. "Lucan, please—"

The image of him burned behind her eyelids, more vivid than any spell projection. Lucan above her, black hair mussed from her fingers, pale blue eyes flecked with gold blown wide with desire, looking at her like she was the only star in his sky—Mother's words from that dinner a year ago, dammit, Mother's words—and she was spiraling, climbing, the pressure building to impossible heights with each desperate circle of her fingers.

Her free hand found her breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, and the dual sensation made her cry out, loud and sharp and uncontrolled. The peak hardened against her palm, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her core, making her inner muscles flutter around nothing. She was arching off the mattress now, her body taking over, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach, teasing her, promising her—

She needed more. The external stimulation wasn't enough—she needed fullness, needed to feel something inside her, needed to imagine what Lucan would feel like filling her completely.

Hallah shifted her hips, spreading her legs wider beneath the tangled sheets, and let her fingers slide lower, tracing her own entrance, feeling the wet heat coating her skin. She was soaked—arousal slick on her inner thighs, her fingers sliding easily as she pressed one digit against her opening, feeling the muscle flutter and clench in anticipation.

"Gods," she whispered, and then she was pushing inside, one finger sliding deep, feeling her own walls clamp down around the intrusion with a grip that made her gasp. She was tight—impossibly tight, her body resisting even her own finger, the pressure intense and immediate and good.

She worked herself slowly, finger moving in shallow thrusts, feeling her inner walls ripple and contract around the penetration. It wasn't enough—she needed more, needed the stretch, needed to feel full. She added a second finger, the stretch burning slightly, making her hiss through her teeth even as her hips bucked upward, seeking more.

"Fuck, fuck," she chanted, her voice breaking, loud and uncontrolled. She was fucking herself now, two fingers pumping in and out, feeling her own wetness coat her hand, hearing the slick sounds of it mixing with her desperate gasps. Her inner muscles clamped down rhythmically, gripping her fingers with a strength that shocked her, that made her wonder how she would ever take him—how she would ever take Lucan—when she could barely handle her own two fingers.

She curled her fingers upward, seeking that spot, and when she found it—gods, when she found it—she saw stars. The pressure against her front wall sent jolts of pleasure radiating through her pelvis, making her thighs tremble, making her toes curl. She worked that spot relentlessly, fingers curling and pressing, feeling the tissue swell and tighten beneath her touch, feeling her own arousal build to something that felt like it might tear her apart.

She imagined him inside her. Not some vague romantic notion, but the specific, visceral reality—his weight pressing her down into the mattress, his hips between her thighs, the hard length of him nudging against her entrance before pushing in, slow and steady and perfect. She imagined the stretch of it, the fullness, the way her body would clamp down around him with this same impossible tightness, the way he would groan her name against her throat, his control finally shattering.

She imagined the look on his face when he felt it—when he felt how tight she was, how she gripped him like a fist, how she couldn't help the way her body tried to keep him inside. She imagined his rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts deepening, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. She imagined the sweat on his skin, the way his black hair would stick to his forehead, the way his pale blue eyes flecked with gold would roll back as he came undone.

"Lucan," she gasped, her voice breaking, "Lucan, I need—"

She was close. So close. Her hand moved faster, rougher, chasing that peak with single-minded desperation. The sounds she was making were obscene, guttural and raw and completely beyond her control, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word she knew in any language.

She felt the first wave building, the precursor tremor that started deep in her belly and radiated outward. Her thighs tensed, her toes curling against the sheets, her back arching so hard her spine cracked. She was panting now, harsh and ragged, her jade-green eyes—Bear's eyes, still green after all these years—squeezed shut as she worked herself relentlessly toward the edge.

Her fingers were soaked now, her own arousal dripping down her hand, coating her wrist, making every movement slick and easy and intense. She could feel her orgasm building like a storm on the horizon, dark and inevitable and massive, her body tightening around her fingers with rhythmic pulses that made her gasp each time.

She imagined him whispering in her ear, his voice rough with desire, telling her exactly what he wanted to do to her, how long he'd wanted her, how he thought about her when he touched himself. The image was so vivid she could almost feel his breath against her skin, could almost smell the ozone-and-books scent of his magic surrounding her.

"Fuck," she gasped, her hand moving faster, "fuck, fuck, I'm—"

She was right there, teetering on the precipice, her entire body trembling with the effort of holding back, of drawing out the pleasure just a little longer. Her clitoris throbbed where her thumb pressed against it, hypersensitive and swollen, every touch sending lightning through her veins. Her inner walls clamped down hard around her fingers, gripping them with that impossible tightness, the pressure building to something that felt like it might break her.

The second wave hit before the first had fully crested, layering on top of it, doubling the sensation until she was mindless, thoughtless, nothing but sensation and need and LucanLucanLucan. Her hips were bucking wildly now, fucking her hand with abandon, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the room along with her desperate, gasping cries.

She imagined him coming with her, his body shuddering against hers, his voice breaking as he spilled inside her, marking her, claiming her. She imagined the heat of it, the intimacy, the connection that went beyond physical, beyond magical, beyond anything she'd ever experienced in two lifetimes.

"Lucan!"

His name tore out of her as she crested, the orgasm hitting like a Paladin's strike, brutal and beautiful and devastating, her body arching off the mattress so hard her shoulders lifted from the sheets, her vision whiting out at the edges as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. She was making sounds she couldn't control, guttural and raw and completely beyond her ability to quiet, his name falling from her lips over and over like a chant, a prayer, the only anchor in the storm.

Her inner muscles contracted rhythmically around her fingers, gripping and releasing in waves that matched the pleasure crashing through her, the tightness almost painful now, almost too much, but she couldn't stop, couldn't bear to let the sensation end. She kept her fingers inside, feeling her own pulse beat around them, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her pelvis in endless waves.

The pleasure radiated outward from her core to her fingertips, her toes, the top of her head. Her thighs trembled, her stomach muscles contracting with each aftershock, her breath coming in ragged gasps that sounded like sobs. She was soaked—her hand, her thighs, the sheets beneath her—and she didn't care, couldn't care, because she felt good, felt sated, felt like she might actually die from the intensity of it.

She collapsed back against the pillows, gasping, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and sweat-slicked. Her fingers were still inside her, still feeling the occasional flutter of her inner muscles around them, the tightness gradually easing as she came down from the peak. She felt good—boneless and sated and heavy with satisfaction—but even as she lay there catching her breath, she knew she wanted more. She wanted him. The fantasy had been exquisite, but it was a pale shadow of what the reality might be.

She was just beginning to contemplate a second round—her body already stirring again at the thought of Lucan's hands, his mouth, his—when the door clicked.

She'd forgotten to lock it. Gods, she'd been so distracted when she came back from the fitting, she just—

Hallah froze, hand still between her legs, fingers still buried inside herself, orgasm still rippling through her traitorous body in aftershocks she couldn't suppress, as Eira Moonwhisper—her mother, her mother—stepped into the room with a basket of winter roses in her hands and an expression of mild curiosity that shifted, in the span of a single heartbeat, into comprehension.

Time stopped.

Hallah was naked. Completely naked, no blanket, no sheet, her body bare and flushed and gleaming with sweat in the firelight. She was wet, her fingers still pressed inside herself, her hips still twitching with involuntary spasms she couldn't control. Her mother's eyes—pale as moonlight, seeing everything—tracked from her face to her hand to the general state of disarray that was her daughter in the throes of self-inflicted pleasure. Her breast was exposed, nipple pebbled and flushed. Her thighs were spread, her own arousal slick and visible. She could smell it in the air, thick and undeniable, and there was absolutely no way her mother couldn't smell it too.

"Well," Eira said, her voice carrying that particular Sylvareth lilt that made everything sound like she was sharing a secret. "I was going to ask if you wanted to help me arrange these in the sitting room, but I see you're... occupied."

Hallah moved. She wasn't sure how she moved, but suddenly she was scrambling for something, anything, to cover herself, her hand yanking out from between her legs—gods, her fingers were still wet, still coated with her own arousal—and she wiped them frantically on the sheet before realizing that was worse, that was definitely worse, now there was a spot—

"It's not—" she started, and her voice came out as a squeak that would have embarrassed a twelve-year-old. "I wasn't—this isn't—"

Denial first. Always denial.

"He's not 'that boy,' Mom. He's my charge. My responsibility." The words tumbled out, automatic, the script she'd rehearsed since that dinner a year ago. "It's not like that! I'm his Paladin. That's all. Protection. Duty."

Eira set the basket down on Hallah's dresser. She didn't look shocked. She didn't look angry. She looked—amused, damn her, the same expression she'd worn at that dinner a year ago when she'd asked if Lucan had kissed her yet, when she'd teased her about him looking at her like she was the only star in his sky.

"I see," she said, and her tone suggested she saw far more than Hallah wanted her to. "And does 'protection and duty' typically involve crying out his name at a volume that could wake the dead? I could hear you in the hallway, Hallah. Three doors down."

Hallah made a sound. It wasn't words. It was some combination of a groan and a whine and possibly the death rattle of her dignity. She grabbed a pillow, clutching it to her chest, but it did nothing to cover her lower half—her flushed thighs, the wetness still gleaming on her skin, the obviousness of what she'd been doing.

"I am NOT—" she tried, and then realized she couldn't finish that sentence because she absolutely was blushing, her face probably the color of a ripe tomato, possibly glowing with actual magical light from sheer embarrassment. "It's hot in here! The fire's too high! I was just—meditating!"

"Meditating," Eira repeated. She moved to the chair by the window and sat down, arranging her skirts with the casual comfort of someone who planned to stay for a while. "With your fingers inside yourself, calling Lucan's name like a battle cry? That's a very... vigorous form of meditation. I don't recall teaching you that technique."

Hallah pressed her legs together, but the damage was done—her mother had seen everything. She wanted to die. She wanted a hole to open in the floor and swallow her. She wanted to be literally anywhere else in the known universe, including the Hollow King's domain, including actual hell, including back at the Mush Inn in Anchorage taking that bullet again because at least that had been quick.

"Mom," she whispered, and her voice cracked. "Please."

"Please what?" Eira asked, her voice gentler now but still carrying that knowing edge. "Please pretend I didn't see? Please pretend I don't know? Please pretend that for a full year, since that dinner where you couldn't stop looking at him, I haven't watched my daughter fall in love with a boy who looks at her like she's the answer to every question he's ever asked?"

The words landed like stones in still water.

Hallah stared at her. Her mother stared back, patient as the moon she was named for, her silver-threaded hair catching the firelight. She looked so calm, so composed, while Hallah was falling apart naked on her bed with a pillow clutched to her chest like a shield.

"I don't—" she started, and stopped. The denial was there, ready on her tongue. He's my charge. It's duty. It's not like that.

But it was. It was exactly like that.

"I can't," Hallah said, and her voice was small, stripped of the snark and the armor and the tsundere bullshit that had kept her safe for so long. "Mom, I can't. If I say it—if I admit it—"

"What happens?" Eira asked softly.

"He could say no." The words fell out, raw and bleeding, all the fear she'd been holding back spilling into the space between them. "I could ask him to the ball, and he could say no, and then I'd have to keep being his Paladin, keep standing next to him, keep looking at him, knowing that I—" She swallowed hard, her throat tight. "Knowing that I love him and he doesn't—"

There. It was out. The word she'd never spoken aloud, hanging in the air between them like a spell waiting to be triggered. Hallah felt lighter and heavier simultaneously, like she'd cut off a limb and was waiting to see if she'd bleed out.

Eira didn't gasp. She didn't look surprised. She simply nodded, as if Hallah had confirmed something she'd already catalogued and filed away since that dinner a year ago.

"So you've decided for him," she said. "You've decided that Lucan Verdantis, who spends every spare moment in your company, who looks at you like you're the only star in his sky—Brant's words from that same dinner, not mine, though I agree with them—who's been quietly, desperately, obviously in love with you for a full year, would say no."

"He's the second prince," Hallah mumbled, burying her face in the pillow because she couldn't look at her anymore. "I'm—I'm nobody. I'm a reincarnated biker from a world that doesn't exist here. I'm his Paladin, sure, but that's just—"

"Just what?" Eira stood. She crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, close enough that Hallah could smell the winter roses on her hands, close enough that she couldn't hide her nakedness. "Just a sacred bond older than the Academy? Just a connection that transcends death and rebirth? Just the reason he survived the assassination attempt, Hallah? Just that?"

Hallah didn't have an answer. She had the pillow, and her burning face, and the fading echoes of pleasure that felt like they belonged to a different person in a different life. Her mother's presence was warm and solid and there, and she wanted to lean into it and run from it simultaneously.

"Your father," Eira said, her voice gentler now, "is in a meeting with the King. He will be there for several hours. When he returns, he will ask me about my day, and I will tell him that I spent the afternoon with our daughter, and that she is happy." She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Hallah's ear, her fingers cool against her overheated skin. "I will not tell him that I walked in on her having a very enthusiastic moment of self-discovery. I will not tell him that she finally admitted she loves the boy she's been mooning over since that dinner a year ago. Those are between us. Between mothers and daughters."

"Why?" Hallah asked, her voice thick, muffled by the pillow. "Why aren't you—disappointed? Shocked? Something?"

Eira laughed, soft and warm. "Oh, Hallah. I've known since that dinner a year ago, when you came home and couldn't stop talking about how he looked at you. I've known since you started keeping every conversation you had with him in your memory like treasure. I've known since I watched you throw yourself in front of danger for him during training and then pretend it was 'just duty' while you shook afterward."

She paused, her hand resting on Hallah's shoulder—bare skin, no blanket between them.

"As for disappointed—" She squeezed gently. "The only thing that would disappoint me is if you let fear steal your happiness. We didn't survive the journey from the Moonwhisper Glades, didn't survive raising a daughter who contains multitudes, just to watch her hide from love because she's afraid of the word 'no.'"

Hallah peeked over the pillow. She was smiling, that soft, knowing smile that made her look both ancient and young, the Sylvareth longevity showing in her unlined face despite the silver in her hair.

"In Sylvareth culture," she said, her voice taking on a storytelling quality, "when a woman decides she wants someone, she doesn't wait for them to notice. She courts them. Openly, with gifts and words and presence. Your father was shocked when I started leaving my healing work at his forge with notes attached. 'For your hands,' I wrote. 'The metal dries them.' He thought they were from the temple almoner for two weeks."

Hallah choked out a laugh, the image breaking through her embarrassment.

"He was so confused," Eira continued, her eyes distant with memory. "This big, gruff Kharzun blacksmith, trying to figure out why a healer kept bringing him salves. When I finally told him it was me, he turned the color of heated iron and stammered for five minutes straight." She squeezed Hallah's shoulder again. "Love is not dignified, Hallah. It is not clean. It is loud and messy and ridiculous, and if you're lucky enough to find it, you don't let it slip away because you're afraid of hearing 'no.'"

She paused, her expression turning more serious. "Your father and I—we weren't supposed to happen. A Sylvareth healer and a Kharzun exile? The politics alone should have kept us apart. But I saw him, and I wanted him, and I decided that the opinions of people who weren't brave enough to love were less important than my own happiness." She met Hallah's eyes. "Are you less brave than I was?"

"No," Hallah whispered, because she wasn't. She was Bear Norcofski, who'd ridden highways without fear. She was Hallah Sovringard, who'd faced the Hollow King. She could ask a boy to a ball.

"Then ask him," Eira said, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial, something that reminded Hallah they were allies as much as mother and daughter. "Tonight. Tomorrow morning. Before the ball, certainly—you don't want him making other arrangements, do you? Can you imagine if someone else asked him first?"

The thought hit Hallah like a physical blow—Lucan at the ball, in formal robes, dancing with some courtier's daughter while she watched from the sidelines, her heart breaking in her chest. The image was so vivid, so painful, that she actually gasped.

"Exactly," Eira said, reading her face. "So you ask him. You wear that dress—the one that's currently haunting your wardrobe—and you walk up to him, and you say, 'Lucan, will you attend the ball with me?' And then you wait."

"And if he says no?" Hallah whispered, the fear still there, still clawing at her throat.

"Then you handle it," she said simply. "You're Bear Norcofski and Hallah Sovringard. You've handled worse. But he won't say no."

"You don't know that."

"I know that boy," Eira countered. "I've watched him watch you for a full year now. I've seen him memorize your schedules so he can 'accidentally' encounter you between classes. I've seen him study Paladin history because you mentioned your duty once. That is not the behavior of someone who would say no."

She stood, smoothing her skirts, and moved toward the door. She paused with her hand on the latch, looking back at Hallah with eyes that saw too much and loved her anyway.

"The first time I told your father I loved him," she said, her voice soft with memory, "I was covered in forge soot and healing salve. We were in his smithy, and I threw up on his anvil immediately after from the stress of admitting it. He didn't care. He just handed me a rag and said 'I know, I've loved you since you threatened to enchant my hammers for waking you up.'"

Hallah managed a weak laugh, the image breaking through her embarrassment.

"Love is not dignified," Eira continued. "It is not clean. It is loud and messy and ridiculous, and if you're lucky enough to find it, you don't let it slip away because you're afraid of hearing 'no.' You certainly don't let it slip away because your mother walked in on you at an inopportune moment."

"That's one way to describe it," Hallah muttered.

Eira opened the door, then paused again. "Oh, and Hallah?"

"Yeah?"

"Silencing wards. Look into them. The Academy library has a whole section on privacy enchantments." Her eyes twinkled. "Though I must say, your volume suggests a healthy enthusiasm. Lucan is a lucky young man. Or will be."

"Mom!"

She laughed, actually laughed, and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Hallah alone with her mortification and her mother's words and the slow, terrifying realization that she was going to have to ask Lucan Verdantis to the ball.

Hallah stared at the ceiling for a long time, the pillow still clutched to her chest, her mother's words echoing in the silence. The embarrassment was still there—a hot, prickling awareness that would probably haunt her until she was ninety. But underneath it, something else. Something lighter. Something that felt like permission.

Ask him.

She thought about the dress in the wardrobe. The ball. The way Lucan's pale blue eyes flecked with gold had looked when he'd watched her across the dinner table a year ago, like she was the only thing worth seeing.

She thought about his name on her lips, cried out in pleasure, and how it hadn't felt wrong. How it had felt like truth. How it had felt like the most honest thing she'd said in thirteen years.

Hallah got up. She couldn't sit still anymore, not with the energy coursing through her. She padded naked to the wardrobe and pulled out the dress, holding it against her body as she examined her reflection in the full-length mirror. The white lace caught the firelight, making her jade-green eyes look brighter, her skin golden in the glow.

She was going to need a silencing ward.

She found her grimoire on the desk, flipped to the section on privacy enchantments, and spent the next twenty minutes carefully constructing a ward around her bedroom—layers of sound-dampening magic that would ensure her mother never got another accidental eyeful or earful of her... enthusiasm.

Then she tried on the dress.

It fit perfectly, of course—the half-elf had known her craft. The bodice hugged her curves, the skirt fell just right, the hood framing her face like a moon against snow. When she turned, she looked... she looked like someone who could ask a prince to a ball. She looked like someone who deserved to be looked at like she was the only star in the sky.

Hallah met her own eyes in the mirror.

"Fine," she said to her reflection, and her voice was steady now, gaining the familiar edge of determination that had carried her through thirteen years of being Hallah Sovringard. "Fine. I'll ask him. But if he says no, I'm blaming you. And I'm never leaving this room again."

The fire crackled. The dress shimmered in the mirror like a promise. And somewhere in the castle, a black-haired, pale-blue-eyed wizard was probably studying ancient texts in the Academy library, completely unaware that his Paladin was about to upend both their lives.

Hallah carefully hung the dress back up, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling until her breathing evened out and the ward she'd cast hummed softly around her, a promise of privacy for whatever came next.