Denova stepped into the grand halls of Ashenveil Manor, her steps light but weary, each movement betraying the exhaustion that weighed down her body. The night had been long, her mind restless, her sleep shallow and broken, yet she had pushed herself to rise early and make it here on time. She felt the heaviness in her eyelids and the dark shadows lurking beneath them, dark circles so evident that she was certain even the most distracted passerby would notice. She tugged at the collar of her coat nervously, wishing she could somehow make herself look less like a sleep deprived wanderer and more like the young noblewoman she was supposed to be.
Patricia, ever vigilant, didn't need to be told twice. She had an uncanny way of noticing the smallest details, and the telltale dark circles under Denova's eyes were enough. Without a word, she motioned to the other servants, her voice calm, low, but carrying that unshakable authority she always had.
"Help Lady Denova with her dress," she instructed. "She needs to be ready for the day."
Immediately, hands moved around Denova with practiced precision. Fabrics were adjusted, collars straightened, hairpins secured. The bustle of activity was soothing in its own way, but Denova still felt the weight of exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. She tried to focus, but her mind kept wandering to yesterday's events, to the quiet bravery she had witnessed in Patricia, and though she would never admit it aloud how guilty she's feeling right now.
Denova's voice, soft and hesitant, broke the silence. "Uh… Patricia… do you… do you always notice things like this?"
Patricia paused for a moment, not looking at her directly, continuing to smooth the hem of the gown with meticulous care. "Notice what?" she asked, though her tone held no pretense.
"You… uh… the tiredness? The dark circles? The fact that I'm a mess?" Denova tried to sound casual, but the words stumbled out awkwardly. Her cheeks heated slightly, though Patricia didn't seem to notice.
Patricia finally glanced up, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I suppose that comes with years of experience," she said dryly. "And seeing you struggle without asking for help, it becomes… noticeable."
Patricia's hands paused in their motion for a brief second, as if acknowledging the weight behind those words. "I'm not here to overwhelm you," she said gently, though there was an edge of quiet firmness in her tone. "I'm here because… someone has to notice, and you can't do everything alone."
"I… I know," Denova murmured. "It's just… a lot, I guess. Having so many things to do… and people depending on me. I don't want to seem… lazy, or ungrateful maybe?" She gave a small, awkward smile, the kind that tried to mask the whirlwind of guilt and exhaustion swirling inside her.
Patricia's hands returned to the gown, her movements precise, but there was a softness to the way she arranged the fabric around Denova's shoulders. "You're not lazy," she said simply. "And you're not ungrateful. But it's… okay to let someone help you."
Patricia's smile widened just slightly "Especially me," she said lightly, though the warmth behind the words was unmistakable.
Denova's cheeks warmed, and she quickly averted her gaze, feeling both comforted and guilty at the same time.
The room fell into a comfortable rhythm. Denova felt herself slowly relaxing, allowing the quiet efficiency of the servants and the quiet presence of Patricia to ease the tension in her shoulders.
As Patricia adjusted the final pin in her hair and stepped back, Denova gave a small, shy smile, trying to mask the tumult of emotions inside. "thank you," she murmured.
Patricia tilted her head slightly, observing her with that careful, unwavering gaze. "You don't have to say it," she replied softly. "Just… try not to disappear entirely under all this work, okay?"
Denova avoided Patricia's eyes, her throat tight with guilt. She remembered again the scene she had witnessed yesterday, the raw vulnerability of Patricia, someone always so brave and unshakable, now on the verge of breaking. Her heart ached at the memory, the courage, and the pain, and she felt strangely ashamed for having seen it. She tried to summon a smile for the servants, a little mask of normalcy as they fussed over her, but it felt brittle and fragile in her own hands.
Once dressed and adjusted, Denova sank lightly into the chair by the window, letting the morning sunlight brush against her face. Her fingers traced the embroidery on the sleeve absentmindedly, her mind wandering, calculating, planning. Today wasn't just another day, it was the day she would meet with Fhiore regarding the Empress gown she had been dreaming of creating. She had sent a letter days ago, outlining her vision, and now she hoped Fhiore would understand exactly what she intended.
As she waited, her gaze drifted around the room. The manor was alive with quiet movement, the subtle hum of servants going about their duties, the rustle of silk, the faint scent of polished wood and fresh flowers lingering in the air. It was peaceful, almost comforting, and yet every corner seemed to remind her of the delicate balance she had to maintain. To be Denova here, in a world that wasn't quite hers but still demanded perfection, required more than appearances, it required patience, strategy, and passion.
And then, of course, there was Patricia. Even as she tried to focus, Denova couldn't help but steal a glance at her. The way Patricia moved, confident yet gentle, commanding yet caring,it was infuriatingly admirable.
She pressed her lips together and let out a quiet sigh, feeling the weight of responsibility and emotion pressing on her chest. "Focus on the gown," she murmured to herself, almost like a chant. "One thing at a time, Denova. Fhiore, the Empress gown… just one step closer to making something beautiful happen."
The morning stretched on with a slow, deliberate pace. The sunlight grew warmer, the manor more alive, and Denova felt a strange mixture of nerves and excitement. Today, she realized, wasn't just about a dress, it was about control, about creating something exquisite from her ideas, and perhaps, in some quiet, unspoken way, about finding her own place in this sprawling, complicated world.
And through it all, Patricia stayed nearby, silently efficient, silently caring an anchor that made Denova feel both comforted and painfully aware of her own guilty feelings. It was impossible not to feel guilty. And yet, for now, all she could do was wait, plan, and hope that Fhiore would arrive soon so that the next step of her plan, and her dreams could begin.
By the time the afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of the Ashenveil Manor, Fhiore finally arrived, practically bursting with excitement. She didn't come empty handed, of course, not for a project like this. Carriage after carriage had been carefully loaded with bolts of fabric, swatches, and sample trims, enough to make anyone's head spin. Denova's eyes widened at the sheer scale of it, and even Lowen, who had been quietly observing from the corner, looked a little overwhelmed by the mountain of colorful material.
"Prepare yourself, Lady Denova," Fhiore announced with a grin that could rival the sun. "We're about to turn your ideas into reality!"
Denova laughed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I hope reality is ready for me. I have… very specific tastes."
Fhiore winked. "Specific is my specialty, and you know that."
As they began sorting through the fabrics, Denova found herself getting lost in the textures and colors. Silks that shimmered like liquid starlight, velvet soft enough to make her fingers ache just to touch, laces delicate enough to make a grown woman nervous. She pinched a piece of deep sapphire silk between her fingers and looked up at Fhiore.
"This one… imagine it flowing under candlelight," Denova said, her voice half dreamy, half excited.
Fhiore nodded enthusiastically. "Oh! Yes! It'll make the wearer look like she's gliding on clouds. Lowen, do you see that?"
Lowen, of course, just sat on the edge of the table, quietly smiling, and let out a soft chuckle. Every time Fhiore or Denova leaned down to pinch his cheeks or whisper something about how adorable he was, he just rolled his eyes and tried to act unimpressed but his faint blush betrayed him every single time.
"Honestly," Denova said, gently tugging on his ear, "you're going to be the downfall of all of us. Look at that face, how can anyone resist?"
Lowen groaned dramatically. "I'm suffering here," he complained, though the tiny smile tugging at his lips said otherwise.
Fhiore laughed, clapping her hands. "Exactly! The cuteness must be acknowledged! We can't just let it sit there quietly." She reached over and lightly nudged him. "See, Lady Denova agrees with me."
Denova rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the giggle that escaped. "I do not! I mean… I agree, yes but we have serious work to do!" She waved a hand at the cascading fabrics. "This gown isn't going to design itself!"
They spent hours immersed in the swatches, debating colors, textures, and patterns.
Lowen, ever the silent observer, just smiled, his own warmth reflected in his eyes. He didn't say much, but his presence made the atmosphere feel lighter, almost like a gentle buffer between the intense creative energy of Denova and Fhiore.
By the end of the day, the fabrics had been chosen, the sketches are already complete, and the room was a chaotic yet delightful mess of creativity and laughter. Denova leaned back, resting her hands on the table, and let out a contented sigh.
"This… this was perfect," she said softly, more to herself than anyone else.
Fhiore grinned, giving her a playful nudge. "And don't forget, you get to wear it. All the credit goes to the most stylish lady in the room."
Denova's cheeks warmed as she glanced at Lowen, who gave her a knowing smile. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by fabric, laughter, and two people who cared for her in entirely different ways, she felt an odd mix of excitement, and comfort.
And as they all laughed and bickered over the last few swatches, Denova realized just how much she was enjoying herself.