Page 125 of Shadowvein

“Vashna tem, Ellie.Kavir meresh Shadowverin naresh.” She dips into a courtesy that takes me aback.

While I stand there, stunned and frozen to the spot at her behavior, two men bring in a large copper tub then leave, and the women begin filling it with water. Once it’s full, they step back, and the one who I think might be the leader points toward it.

I hesitate, arms crossing over my chest. The idea of other people being in the room while I bathe clashes with everything I know. But before I can gather a coherent protest, they're already reaching for me—fingers deft on the laces of my clothing, laughing gently at my stammered objections.

Their hands move with the casual confidence of people who’ve done this a thousand times before, stripping away layers of resistance with each loosened tie. By the time I’m half undressed, the heat crawling up my neck has nothing to do with the steaming bath. I’ve survived desert crossings, mountain slides, witnessed violence. Yet these women, with their easy laughter and brisk hands, make me feel more exposed than any of it.

I exhale hard through my nose, surrendering to the ritual the way I’ve surrendered to so many Meridian customs that don’t fit neatly into my Earth-shaped understanding of the world.

The water is hot when I sink into it, scented with herbs and something sweeter. Under their hands, I tip my head back and let them work. They wash my hair and scrub my skin with brisk, thorough motions that leave absolutely no room for modesty. Theirmatter-of-fact approach takes the edge off the discomfort, but only a little and I find myself staring fixedly at the ceiling during the more … personal moments, gritting my teeth and counting breaths, and telling myself it’s just like going to get a bikini wax … not that I’ve ever been to get that done.

Throughout their ministrations, the women chatter and laugh among themselves, trying to draw me into their conversations through gestures and smiles. The words are mostly lost on me, but their warmth isn’t.

When they’re finished with the bath, they usher me out and wrap me in soft cloths, towelling my hair before guiding me toward a low chair.

One kneels to rub oils into my skin, the scent heady and unfamiliar, while another combs through my damp hair with deft, gentle fingers. She separates sections with quick motions, weaving intricate braids along the crown and sides, while leaving the rest loose down my back.

I close my eyes for a moment, and let them work. Let myself pretend, for just a second, that this is normal. That I’m someone who belongs to this world, and not a strange half-thing caught between two realities.

The undergarments they dress me in are simple but comfortable. A soft band that supports my breasts without constricting, and bottoms that remind me of shorts.

When they lift the dress, they don’t slide it over my head. Instead, they have me step carefully into it. The fabric rises around me,whispering against my skin, cool and weightless as they fasten the tiny silver clasps running up my spine.

Their hands are sure, adjusting the bodice to skim my body without clinging, arranging the sleeves so they end just below my elbows. The skirt falls in clean folds to my ankles, the side slits hidden unless I move. Movement without sacrifice. Grace without armor.

They slip soft leather slippers onto my feet, dyed the same midnight blue as the dress, silver threaded with the same constellation patterns.

Only when they’re satisfied do they turn to the cosmetics. I sit still as they dust powders across my face, brush color over my eyelids and lips. They spend the most time on my eyes, consulting among themselves in low voices, discussing something I don’t understand.

When they finally guide me to a polished metal mirror, I don’t recognize the woman who stares back.

She looks … otherworldly. Elegant.Composed.

There’s none of the dust-caked traveler left, none of the girl who stumbled into a desert still dressed for winter in Chicago.

Even my eyes seem different. No longer just brown, but threaded through with silver and deep blue, the color radiating outward from my pupils like something alive.

One of the women smiles, satisfied. “Vashira selurin,” she says softly.Lovely appearance.

“Narem.” I wish I had better words to express my gratitude.

They gather their things and file out, leaving behind only the faint scent of herbs and a too-quiet room.

I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers across the silverembroidery on my sleeve. The patterns aren’t just decoration. They form constellations. Stars arranged into shapes and lines that speak a language I don’t understand.

I trace the stitched lines absently, the quiet pressing in around me.

If I wear this dress.

If I walk through the stronghold tonight.

If I stand beside Sacha while they bow and whisper …

What does that make me?

My head lifts at the knock on my door. When I call out permission to enter, it opens, and Sacha steps inside. He stops abruptly when he sees me, one foot still raised mid-step.

The stillness that overtakes him is absolute. Not just physical immobility, but a complete cessation of movement, as though even the air around him has paused. For once, the mask he wears slips, just for a heartbeat, before it slides back into place. But I catch it. Genuine surprise in eyes that rarely reveal anything unintentional.

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