Chapter Text
He looks every inch a king, impeccably dressed as always, the badges gleaming bright against the pale blue sash. His crown rarely makes an appearance, but tonight it sits atop his golden head, brilliant in the lights of the ballroom.
A corona for Ravka’s son and savior, she thinks. For their living Saint.
He plays the part of doting fiancé well, beaming at his soon-to-be-bride and making witty conversation with preening courtiers. The princess is seldom seen without a smile, she notes, and the bitterness that accompanies the thought catches her by surprise. Her scowl deepens as the dragon’s laugh rumbles through her.
Tonight, she is the imposter, even as the couple on the dais grins through gritted teeth. Tonight, amidst satins and jewels, the glittering scale cuffs at her wrists are more stark. Tonight, she longs for the comforting weight of armor afforded by a well-worn kefta.
Still, the gown is exquisite - fine layers of shimmering silk, pleats of liquid night and starlight. Indeed, Genya had outdone herself in its commissioning. She had squealed at the flattering cut - and then threatened murder after Zoya had rolled her eyes and suggested something more … reserved.
The Tailor had gone quiet, though, as she’d lightly traced the scars exposed by the low back. We match, Zo, she had whispered after a moment, and the general hadn’t been able to help the sad smile that touched her lips.
How far they’d come from the girls so desperate to please a beautiful tyrant.
It had been enough for her to keep the dress.
Now when Genya inclines her head pointedly and slips the fluted glass from her fingers, Zoya feels dread coil in her gut. He had been trying to catch her eye for the better part of the evening, but if she were being honest, Zoya found she did not have the stomach for faking smiles tonight. She turns, nonetheless, steeling her spine.
Nikolai says nothing, only bends slightly at the waist and offers a gloved hand.
Perhaps it is the wine that has begun to hum in her blood. Maybe it’s plain politeness. Maybe it’s the cant to his mouth or the barest arch to his brow, as if daring her to decline - or to accept.
He hides well his surprise at the slip of her hand into his.