IMARA'S POV
I could smell the rose oil in my hair as the servant worked the final braid into place. The scent was rich, expensive, although nothing like the exotic soaps we used back home in Coal Valley. My reflection stared back at me from the polished bronze mirror. The deep green dress they had given me hugged my curves perfectly, the fabric so fine it felt like water against my skin. Even my shoes were new, soft leather that would carry me silently across marble floors.
"You look beautiful, Luna Imara," the servant said, stepping back to admire her work.
I touched the braids coiled at the base of my neck. Beautiful. That word again. In Coal Valley, beauty was currency, but here it felt more like armor.
