It had been eight months since I’d come home. My body was still a problematic mess, but it worked how I asked it most days. No longer was I bandaged up like Gundlach rulers post-mortem, nor was I skin over bone. I had the figure back that I so desperately wanted those months ago, though there was still a part of me that remained in looser clothing; the part of me that heard Shahin’s repulsion soon after this figure filled out in my early adulthood. Mother was happy to see me on the modest side, informing me that other women had chosen more questionable attire in recent years. It wasn’t until Bròn had mentioned using my figure to my advantage that I asked Zaima for help in changing my wardrobe. The maiden’s face lit with joy when I brought the topic to her attention, assuring me she’d find me the perfect robes. My fate was in her hands as the now 17 year-old left with a smile and a pep in her step.


    I sank to the bed, my hands pulling to my face stiffly. I hadn’t seen Abyad in three months. I wondered if he was hiding from me, like he did in our youth, but something felt different. Our last interaction on the roof, he refused to look at me. I didn’t know if it was because I still looked as broken as I felt—or if it was because something else was on his mind.


    I don’t kiss and tell.


    My mind remembered those words with such clarity it was frightening. I wondered if he truly was a rake of a man—perhaps playing me and other women he wanted to use. The side of me that lacked trust lapped such an idea up in an instant, running so far with it that I was imagining him intwined with a host of noble women. I cringed at the notion, imagining that muscular body with any other was more than mortifying. I stopped myself from such assumptions, as well as being mad over them, when the memory of my own deflowering and ruin reared its ugly head. My hands fell to the small of my back, as my fingers traced the divots and peaks from the scars that laid neatly under my robe.


    I was interrupted by Zaima’s return. It took her sheer moments to find a stack of what I thought were traditional robes, their vibrantly dyed silks and cottons catching my eyes.


    “These…” Zaima began. “Are still modest, in comparison to what I’ve seen some of the noblewomen wearing, but I think it’s closer to what you’re looking for.”


    Her face shone with satisfaction, pure triumph, as the articles of clothing were set on my bed. Her deep brown eyes met mine, excited to finally see something more than the long and modest attire I so often donned. When I had initially gained the weight back, she hawed at me that she wished to fill out in a similar fashion. I couldn’t muster more than a mumble and a sheepish smile in response, at the time. The first gown she had me try on was still too loose at the chest, meant for a more shapeless silhouette. Though its shade of purple was lovely, it wasn’t the style I was hoping for. Zaima wasn’t a fan of it, either, instantly telling me to undress once she laid eyes on how it drowned my waist in fabric. I was confused, both putting it on and taking it off. I wasn’t used to clothing that didn’t split down the center.


    The second dress was more noteworthy, a deep hue of burgundy. It was too short for my liking, falling just above my knees. Zaima insisted that the amount of skin shown was still modest in a sense, but there was a part of me that couldn’t find comfort in agreeing to wear such clothing.


    “Maybe to sleep in, during a warm night…” I told Zaima.


    She rolled her eyes in a typical teenage fashion, a small smile pulling at her lips as she unfolded a few other dresses. My eyes fell upon a long, black gown that had a high neckline. Zaima saw how I eyed the void-like fabric, her eyes aglow with excitement as she picked it up and handed it to me.


    “You can still show skin and be modest, Hala.” She reminded me as she placed it in my hands. “Modesty is more than what you wear—it’s how you carry yourself.”


    I nodded as I felt its buttery material. The cashmere soaked in all light, and I was entranced by how it moved as I walked to the room divider. Pulling the long gown over my head proved difficult—the high neckline was hard to get on. Zaima had called it a ‘turtle neck,’ and I understood why once I felt the way it nearly suffocated me at the throat. It was snug, just as the rest of the form-fitting dress. I felt a chill of air touch my right thigh—a slit traveled from just below my hip, down to my toe. There was no way to wear an undergarment with such a dress, and that left me blushing.


    I walked from the room divider, and Zaima’s expression was pure feline-amusement. She loved the way it looked on me, and when I saw myself in the mirror I understood why. I was devastating in the dress. A woman. My buxom figure was hugged by the cloth, clinging to my curves with a vengeance. I ogled myself, and Zaima let out an exaggerated squeal.


    “This is the one, Your Highness.” She urged, her voice deep and excited. “You simply must wear dresses like this.”


    I squared my shoulders and turned to look at my backside. There were small bumps beneath the fabric that were obviously scars, making the saliva that coated my throat thick.


    “Are you sure…?” I almost whispered.


    “If you want to show off your figure, you have to make compromises.” She tutted.


    The young girl had a point. I could default to a robe of Mahsulian style, that was tighter in fit—but I’d see a similar effect on my back. There was no way around it unless I expected to wear bandages under every article of clothing I wore to hide the scarring—and it’d be a falsity to say I didn’t debate such a choice. I sighed a shaky breath, nodding my head.


    “Fine. I’ll wear this one.” I said, my voice soft and scared. The slit up the side was still a lot of skin to show, but the other dresses Zaima brought were even more revealing. She smiled brilliantly, wrapping her arms around me tightly. It was amazing, how a girl almost ten years my junior was so much more mature in certain ways than I was; but still so childlike. I hugged her back, and thanked her for bringing me the gowns.


    Bròn visited later that evening, as I still wore the gown. I wanted Abyad to come to me that night, but I was unsure of how. His absence left me itchy, almost like I had a new kind of frustration welling within me. I felt it just below my gut, burning me from the inside out.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    A dark chuckle emitted from him as he appeared from the shadows, strolling over to the desk at the far end of the room by the balcony’s doors as he watched me.


    “Impressive.” He said simply, leaning his backside to the desk. He braced himself with his hands behind him, on the lip of the wood.


    “Oh?” I asked. “I thought you wouldn’t touch a human like me with a ten-foot pole.”


    “I wouldn’t.” He replied. “But I can at least tell ya when yer lookin’ good, Lass. The dress is a keeper.”


    A half smirk played at my lips as I opened the vanity drawer, new pans of makeup and cosmetics filled them since Mother had began dropping in regularly. Any shade she didn’t particularly like, she gave to me—and anything she thought reminded her of me wound up in my possession as well. I opened a grey pan of eyeshadow, applying it skillfully.


    “Well,” I began. “Do the Powers That Be see Abyad visiting tonight in my fate?’


    “Aye.” Was all Bròn said in reply.


    I had asked the question as a joke, but his response made my eyes widen. I forced them to narrow, bringing a darker shade of grey out and swathing the brush in my hands through it.


    “Impressive.” I quipped in response.


    Bròn chuckled again, his eyes traveling over my figure.


    “I think yer getting the hang of it.” He finally said.


    “Of what?” I asked.


    “Overcoming that illness in yer mind. You ain’t had those dreams in weeks, ‘ave ya?” He asked.


    I looked to him and shook my head, a sense of pride washing over me. Eating with Mother and Father; spending time with Zaima doing things other than tending to my wounds; picking up languages I thought I’d entirely forgotten; all of these things were keeping my mind off of the past. He smiled solemnly.


    “That’s good, Lass.” He said softly.


    I knew he saw something that I couldn’t. He knew things I’d never learn ahead of time. Those Powers That Be prevented him from telling anyone of any of it. He was nothing more than an all-seeing eye with no mouth when it came to the Fates, something I’d come to understand during our discussions. His terseness wasn’t because he wanted to keep such information to himself; it was because he could face punishment for speaking about the things he was allowed to know. I understood the fear. Fear I’d known all too well.


    “When will he come?” I asked, changing the topic.


    “Don’t go to sleep early, that’s all I can tell ya.” He said, cracking his usual deviant smile.


    I nodded my head, taking his words in as the amber light filled the room. Sunset was still a difficult time, one that brought insurmountable paranoia clawing at the walls I’d formed around my inner-peace. The peace I clung onto with such ferocity, hoping that no one could ever take it away from me again. I had gotten my laugh back, despite how it sent me into small waves of pain. My face was plumped, and my eyes less hollow. There was a flame rekindling inside of them, the flame I’d been given at birth. The flame that man had nearly smothered.


    Bròn saw how my face tensed as the golden rays bled into my room, the large windows welcoming the light.


    “Ya alright, Lass?” He asked.


    “It just doesn’t get easier, this time of day.” I confided.


    “I know.” He replied.


    The immortal knew everything. He was arrogant, but I supposed that came with the territory once an entity such as himself hit a certain age.


    “Bròn,” I asked.


    “Yeah?”


    “Are there others like you?”


    Bròn loosed a breath, deliberating how much was enough to satiate my effervescent curiosity. How much was enough to keep him from getting into trouble with the Powers.


    “Aye. We all have our own specialties, weaknesses, and powers.” He explained. “We can’t interfere with each others’ strings of fate, nor can we see ‘em.”


    I took in the cryptic answer to the best of my ability, digesting it slowly. If Bròn wasn’t the only one of his kind, where were the rest? As if reading my mind, he spoke again.


    “There are dozens of us each in a Kingdom at any given time. I ain’t seen the Council of Seven in almost a century, ever since I hid meself in that cave in Otlak. We like to keep our distance, else we end up arguin’.” He said.


    Dozens? Council of Seven? I shook my head once, then scarcely applied coal to my lash line. The newfound information was almost dizzying. Looking at myself in the mirror, though, I was proud. I looked innocent, but dangerous in all black. It made me look similarly to how I felt on the inside; dark, alluring, like the woman I’d always wanted to be as a young girl.


    “Ya look good, Bonnie.” Bròn said, a hint of platonic affection in his voice. I didn’t care what the myths said—Bròn was a kind entity, at the end of the day. At least, towards those he felt pity for.


    “Thank you…” I replied.


    “He’s a lucky Lad. Make sure he doesn’t go straying down an unfortunate path.” He said solemnly.


    “How so?” I asked. It seemed like Bròn was entrusting me with a difficult task by the way he made the request.


    “He could either become a man of great power, or a bringer of misfortune. He needs to tread lightly with his trickery.” He cautioned.


    “Abyad hardly tells me what he’s planning. He’s much too scared to share such things with me.” I shrugged him off.


    “Aye. That’s why you put on yer armor just like he does…” he said, raking my figure in the gown. “And get that information from ‘im in other ways. Without usin’ yer words.”


    I understood the gist of what Bròn was saying—but the thought of intimacy in such a way was out of my comfort zone. The thought of using my body to gain the upper hand was overwhelming, in and of itself. I looked at him with hesitancy, and he smiled grimly.


    “I know it’s hard. But it’s what you gotta do to help yerself, and the Lad.” He reassured me.


    I didn’t know if he actually knew the burden he’d just placed upon me. Sex was a mortifying topic, and he knew nothing of my inability to bear child. If Abyad and I…he’d be expecting a child. I knew him. I knew how badly he wanted a family, even if he never said he wanted one. The way he watched me and my parents growing up, he desperately wanted that for himself. If I had it in me—literally—I would give him such a thing in a heartbeat. But I was nothing more than defective goods.


    “Everything’ll play out as the Powers will it.” Bròn added, seeing the distress in my expression.


    With that, I forced myself to trust him.