Chapter 8: Surprise

I wasn't exactly thrilled about the prospect of dining with a snobby king while a room full of strangers dissected me with their eyes, silently tallying every tear in my travel-worn tunic and every smudge of dirt beneath my fingernails. But I had a mission that outweighed my pride: map the enemy lines and understand the layout of this fortress from the inside out. That meant playing the part of the grateful, overwhelmed stray and earning his confidence, even if the deception turned my stomach.

To my genuine shock, Zion’s idea of "hospitality" included a bedroom that was half the size of my entire cave back home. I stood in the center of the room, feeling small and out of place beneath the soaring, vaulted ceilings. I’d never felt a real mattress before—back home, "comfort" was a particularly soft patch of moss or a pile of furs near the embers of a dying fire—and the sheer, unapologetic opulence of the velvet hangings and gold-leaf trim was dizzying.

Then there were the clothes. Laid out on the bed were fabrics so soft they felt like bottled air, woven with a precision that seemed almost magical. It was a far cry from the sturdy, scratchy wools and leathers I was used to.

The crown jewel of the suite, however, was a porcelain basin the servants called a "bathtub." Back at the cave, the river was my only option, usually ice-cold and shared with the fish and the occasional curious frog. If Zion ever asked, I’d take the secret of my enjoyment to my grave, but sliding into that steaming, lavender-scented water felt like a physical revelation. It was as if the heat was melting away weeks of tension and fear. I lingered until my skin wrinkled and the water began to cool, though I'd never admit to being so easily swayed by a bit of plumbing and some scented oils.

"This is a trap," I muttered to my reflection, smoothing the skirts of a gown the color of a sunlit ocean. The fabric shimmered down to my ankles, catching the light in a way that felt like a lure. I stared at the mirror, barely recognizing the clean, polished girl staring back at me. My hair, usually a tangled mess, had been brushed until it shone like silk, and the hollows of my cheeks seemed less pronounced in the warm glow of the candlelight. I looked like a noblewoman, or at least a very convincing imitation of one.

A soft, rhythmic click at the door made me flinch; my hand instinctively went to my thigh, searching for a dagger that was no longer there. I turned to find a maid standing in the doorway with a warm, practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Dinner is served in the Great Hall, My Lady," she said, dipping into a low curtsy. "His Majesty insists you take your time. He said a guest of such... unique standing should not be rushed."

"Tell him thank you," I replied, forcing my voice into a 'polite' register that felt like a tight pair of shoes. "I’ll be down shortly."

As she left, I took one last look at the girl in the mirror. She looked soft, but beneath the shimmering silk, my heart was still a jagged stone. I wasn't here for the silk or the soup; I was here to find the cracks in Zion’s armor before he found the ones in mine. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and stepped out to meet the King.