Zaketa presents a carefully crafted mask to the world; one of sharp edges, privilege, and bravado. Only those closest to her, her most loyal guards, know the real Zaketa. And she is so much more than what her warlord father has crafted her to be.
In...
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Surrounded by stylists, Zaketa sat stark still, enduring the process of having her face painted and jewels painstakingly adhered to her face in an elaborate mask. Fleur was impressively efficient, in her element as she worked, commanding her small army.
"Miss," the dour woman working on her hissed. "Not a move! Not until the glue has set!"
Rhys leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, her more simplistic mask already complete, dry, and set. One of the stylists worked at the hem of her jacket. The vaguest hint of a smile tugged at her lips. Zaketa did not doubt that Rhys was alert and entirely aware of her surroundings, despite her casual, bemused air.
It was torture to not be able to snap her guard and order that smirk off her face, to demand she straighten up and act her part. Rhys never cowed, demured, or otherwise bent to Zaketa's will. She did as she was asked, but always with dignity and often with a hint of amusement. And so, it had become something of a game, Zaketa carefully goading Rhys.
Zaketa clenched her jaw, annoyed at the missed opportunity. She'd become rather adept at reading the slender girl's subdued reactions. From the smug look Rhys wore now, she was well aware of Zaketa's frustration at being bullied into silence by a swarm of stylists. Zaketa quirked an eyebrow, shooting Rhys a scathing look. She would pay-- later.
Rhys' eyes crinkled, further evidence of her subdued smile. Zaketa resisted the urge to laugh. It was infuriating how well Rhys read her, and worse yet, knew that the princess was all bark and no bite.
Zaketa took a breath, closed her eyes, and relaxed as much as she was able, listening to the chatter of those around her. With Zaketa forced into silence and at their mercy, the women seemed to grow comfortable, prattling on far more than they normally would in her presence.
"Did you hear what happened to the Marshall boy?" It was a subtle whisper of conversation between the girls hard at work hemming her gown.
"His mother is sick, what more could happen to that family?"
"He was caught stealing." There was a knowing gasp from a few other girls, and Zaketa tensed, dreading what would be whispered in hushed, horrified tones next.
"Did they-- did he?" came the dreaded question from one of the girls.
"Put in the stocks," the gossip confirmed. There were a few soft sighs of relief. Zaketa let out the breath she'd been holding.
"At least he didn't lose a finger."
"Or worse, a hand."
"They were lenient," the gossip continued. "He's just a boy, yet with his father dead, his mother sick, he's doing all he can. Is it any wonder--"
"There, that's the last of them," said the stylist working on Zaketa's face. "I think we can take a break now, don't you Miss?" Zaketa clenched her jaw in frustration as she lost the hushed conversation behind them. "You should be able to talk now, your forehead is still a little--"
