Kestrel's arm was linked with hers, solid and grounding. Elissa held on a little tighter than she meant to.
As they neared the first door to the great hall, one of the ministers' wives spotted them.
"Princess Kestrel!" the woman called, gliding toward them with a practiced smile. "There you are. The northern envoys are waiting—your father asked me to fetch you."
Kestrel's jaw tensed for a heartbeat, then she looked at Elissa.
"Will you be all right?" she murmured, low enough that the minister's wife wouldn't hear.
Elissa forced a small smile she didn't quite feel. "I'm right behind you," she said. "Go. I'll follow in a moment."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," Elissa said. "If you don't go, your father will send half the guard after you. I'd rather not cause a scene before I even step inside."
That got the tiniest huff of a laugh from Kestrel.
"All right. I'll wait just inside," Kestrel promised, squeezing Elissa's hand once before letting the minister's wife tug her away.
In a few steps, Kestrel had vanished through the first door, swallowed by a spill of light and sound. Then the door eased mostly shut again, leaving Elissa alone in the short stretch of corridor.
She drew a breath and stepped forward.
The first door opened onto the narrow antechamber between it and the great inner doors—just a short stone passage meant to keep the warmth of the hall from leaking into the winter corridors. The air here was already warmer, a soft, trapped heat. The music on the other side of the great doors thundered faintly, like a heartbeat behind a wall.
Elissa stepped through the first door.
Something caught.
There was a sharp tug at the back of her gown. She stepped back, suddenly pulled off-balance. For a dizzy second she thought someone had grabbed her, but when she twisted a little she felt the drag of fabric against rough metal.
The dress had snagged on part of the iron hinge.
She glanced back, trying to see, and gave a careful, tiny tug to free it—
The wrong thing gave way.
She felt it instantly: the slight snap of a hook, the soft slither of loosened lacing, the subtle sag of the fabric against her skin. The fitted bodice that had held so perfectly to her curves now loosened at her back.
Her eyes flew wide. Her face went cold.
The gown was still on her, but the support at the back had failed, and the neckline that had already felt daring now threatened to slip if she moved too quickly.
No..No. No.No
Her hand flew back, fingers fumbling for the fabric, but the open cut of the back betrayed her; she couldn't catch anything solid without twisting too far, without risking the whole front of the dress shifting dangerously.
Her breath turned thin. Heat climbed up her throat, not from embarrassment alone, but from the sharp, horrible sense of helplessness.
"Not now," she whispered to herself. "Please, not now—"
Her throat tightened. She couldn't even call out loudly. The idea of someone turning and catching her half undressed in the entry made her stomach twist.
She stood frozen, one hand stretched uselessly behind her, the other pressed to her racing heart, afraid to even turn.
In the tightest part of her panic, a warm hand pressed against the bare skin of her back.
Elissa flinched, a tiny gasp escaping her. The hand was firm and steady, fingers spreading just enough to press the loosened fabric gently back into place, holding the dress exactly where it was supposed to sit.
"Don't move," a low voice said by her ear. "You're all right."
The voice was familiar. Warm. Known.
Her heart, already racing, stuttered strangely.
"M–my dress," she managed, her voice barely more than a breath. "It… it's come loose, I don't—"
"Just follow me," he murmured.
His other hand found hers, fingers closing around her own where they hovered uselessly at her side. The grip was sure but gentle, a quiet command to breathe, to trust.
The hand at her back adjusted slightly, holding the top edge of the gown in place, shielding what the loosened fastening threatened to reveal.
Supported like that—one hand steady at her back, one hand wrapped around hers—Elissa let him guide her.
He stepped backward, drawing her with him fully into the narrow passage between the doors and away from the iron hinge that had betrayed her. Together, they moved a few careful steps forward, his body angled just enough to keep her turned away from any accidental glance through the door cracks.
The stone walls on either side soon widened a little, the tight corridor opening into a small pocket of space between inner and outer doors. It was just wide enough for two people to stand comfortably; warmer here, closer to the hall, but still hidden from sight.
He stopped there and gently turned her so that her face was to the wall and his body blocked her from both walls. His palm stayed firmly at her back, keeping the gown in place.
The music from inside beat through the stone, a muffled waltz. Her own heartbeat drummed louder.
For the first time since the fabric had slipped, she drew a full breath.
She turned toward the wall, pressing her palms lightly to the cool stone. Her bare back was to him now, the loosened gown held in place only by his hand.
He stood close, but not touching anywhere except where it mattered—his body facing her back, his shoulder just brushing the opposite wall in the narrow space.
His fingers shifted slightly on the fabric, adjusting his grip. The light brush of his fingertips against her skin made Elissa gasp, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the passage.
At that, his eyes darkened for the briefest second—something primal flashing there—only to vanish as quickly as it came.
Focus.
He found the problem almost immediately: the thin lace that had been holding the upper part of her gown in place was half torn, barely clinging to a single thread.
With one hand still steady on her back, he studied the rest of her.
His gaze moved up, taking in the loose bun at the back of her head, the pins glinting among the soft, dark hair, and the tiny flower buds tucked delicately along the sides.Wisps framed her neck and cheeks, softening her whole face.
He considered for only a heartbeat.
Then, with practiced precision, he reached up and slid one pin from her bun.
A few strands of hair loosened, brushing the nape of her neck, and fell softly, but he already had the broken lace between his fingers. He threaded the pin through the torn part, securing the first side of the lace to the gown's inner lining.
Then he glanced at her hair again, then back at the half-secured lace.
Another pin.