Lyra, the servant, turned out to be a surprisingly efficient, if somewhat terrified, instructor.
She wasted no time in outlining the monumental task ahead of me: transforming Wraith, the battle-hardened knight, into Elara Veridian, the pampered noblewoman.
"We have less than a week," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustle of silks and satins she'd begun to unpack.
"The wedding is scheduled for the next full moon. Lord Valerius arrives in three days."
Lord Valerius. The "Trash Prince," as the whispers called him.
The man I was to marry, a man I knew nothing about except that he was deemed unworthy by the court.
A convenient pawn, just like me.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Two discarded pieces, forced together on a chessboard controlled by others.
Lyra began with the physical transformation.
My calloused hands, more accustomed to gripping a sword hilt than holding a teacup, were subjected to a series of creams and oils, designed to soften and smooth them.
My hair, usually kept in a practical braid, was washed, brushed, and styled into elaborate curls that felt foreign and uncomfortable.
"Lady Elara favors this style," Lyra explained, her fingers deftly weaving through my dark strands. "It is considered… fashionable."
Fashionable. A word that held no meaning in my former life.
Survival, strategy, strength – those were the words that mattered.
Now, I had to learn a whole new vocabulary.
One of etiquette, deception, and delicate manipulation.
The dress fittings were the worst.
Lyra presented me with a seemingly endless array of gowns, each one more elaborate and constricting than the last.
Silks, satins, laces, and velvets – fabrics I'd only ever seen from afar, now draped across my body, suffocating me with their opulence.
"Lady Elara prefers pastels," Lyra informed me, holding up a gown of pale lavender silk. "They complement her complexion."
My complexion, which was currently more accustomed to the harsh sun and wind of the battlefield, was deemed too… robust.
Lyra applied a series of powders and creams, attempting to lighten my skin tone and erase the evidence of my outdoor life.
"You must hold yourself differently," she instructed, demonstrating a delicate, almost fragile posture. "Lady Elara is known for her… grace."
Grace. Another word that felt alien on my tongue.
I was used to moving with purpose, with power, with the confidence of a warrior.
Now, I had to learn to glide, to flutter, to appear… weak.
It was a performance, a charade, and I was the unwilling actor.
Each adjustment, each lesson, each whispered instruction chipped away at the identity I'd so carefully constructed.
Wraith was fading, replaced by this… imitation of a noblewoman.
But beneath the surface, the fire still burned.
The hatred for Lady Isolde, the determination to survive, the simmering desire for revenge.
These were the things that kept me going, the things that prevented me from shattering under the weight of this forced transformation.
As Lyra laced me into yet another corset, tightening it until I could barely breathe, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
A stranger stared back at me.
A pale, delicate creature, adorned in silks and jewels.
But in the depths of her eyes, a flicker of steel remained.
The ghost of Wraith, waiting for her chance to strike.
And strike she would.
—--
The physical transformation was only half the battle.
Lyra also drilled me relentlessly on Elara's life, her habits, her preferences, her relationships.
It was like memorizing a script for a play I never wanted to be in.
"Lady Elara is fond of embroidery," Lyra said, handing me a needle and a piece of half-finished tapestry. "She spends hours working on these… creations."
I stared at the needle, my fingers clumsy and awkward.
I'd held swords, axes, and bows, but this tiny piece of metal felt utterly foreign in my hand.
I managed a few clumsy stitches, the thread tangling and knotting.
"No, no, my lady," Lyra corrected gently, guiding my hand. "Smaller stitches. More delicate. Like this."
I tried again, forcing myself to focus, to mimic her movements.
It was excruciatingly slow, frustrating work.
A far cry from the adrenaline rush of battle.
"Lady Elara enjoys playing the pianoforte," Lyra continued, leading me to a large, ornate instrument in the corner of the room. "She is quite accomplished."
I sat down on the bench, my fingers hovering over the keys.
I knew nothing about music, except for the rough songs sung around campfires.
I pressed a key tentatively, producing a discordant note.
Lyra winced. "Perhaps we should focus on something else," she said quickly.
And so it went.
I learned about Elara's favorite flowers (lilies, of course), her preferred authors (romantic drivel), her closest friends (a gaggle of simpering noblewomen I already despised).
I learned about her family, her history, her secrets – or at least, the secrets Lady Isolde deemed necessary for me to know.
The most challenging part was learning about Elara's relationship with Lord Valerius, the "Trash Prince." Apparently, they had exchanged a few letters, polite and formal, filled with the usual platitudes expected of an arranged marriage.
"Lady Elara expressed… mild interest in his poetry," Lyra said, handing me a small, leather-bound book. "You should familiarize yourself with it."
I opened the book, scanning the verses.
They were… surprisingly good.
Not the flowery, sentimental nonsense I'd expected, but sharp, witty, and filled with a subtle undercurrent of cynicism.
It was the first hint that Lord Valerius might be more than just a "Trash Prince."
As the days passed, I began to feel like a hollow shell, a puppet being manipulated by Lady Isolde's strings.
I was losing myself, piece by piece, replaced by this fabricated persona.
As the days passed, the internal pressure built.
I felt like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap.
But I maintained the façade.
I smiled, I curtsied, I embroidered (poorly), and I played the pianoforte (even worse).
I let Lyra see only what I wanted her to see: a slightly inept, but ultimately compliant, replacement for Elara.
One evening, after Lyra had finally left for the night, I stood alone in my lavish prison.
I looked in the mirror, at the stranger staring back.
The silken gown, the carefully styled hair, the pale makeup… it was all a lie.
But beneath the surface, Wraith was still there. Waiting.
Planning.
Biding her time.
I clenched my fist, the delicate fabric of the gown crinkling in my grip.
I would play this game.
I would survive.
And Lady Isolde would never see me coming.
My revenge would be subtle, calculated, and utterly devastating.
This was a war of a different kind.
And I was a master of war.