The ship rocked gently in the harbor, ropes creaking as the crew worked to ready the vessel for departure. Taryn stood near the railing, her fingers wrapped tightly around the weathered wood, her knuckles pale against the grain. She hadn't stopped fidgeting since she'd stepped aboard, tugging at the fabric of her dress as if that might make it settle better against her skin.
It didn't.
The dress she wore—a flowing piece of deep green silk with a neckline lower than she preferred—felt like a second enemy. It clung to her in all the wrong places, and the skirts weighted more than she'd even considered practical. She'd worn uncomfortable clothing before—armor that pinched, boots that blistered, the occasional disguise that felt more like a noose than a second skin. But this was different. This wasn't armor. It wasn't practical.
It wasn't her.
