*Ella*

        Christopher ran his eyes up and down her body, arms crossed, feet firmly planted. "Yes, that'll do. That'll do nicely," he said, eyes narrowed in his usual frown.

        Ella couldn't look at him when she asked, "Do nicely for what, brother dear?" The torchlight flicered across his hands–long, bony, scarred hands that liked to strike at those who displeased him–casting them half into shadow.

        Christopher was silent for a beat too long. When he spoke, his voice was ice. "For the High Magistrate's feast, or have you forgotten about that, too?"

        Of course. The feast. These clothes, the spring-green silk stola with the gold ornaments at the shoulders and the cloth-of-gold palla, the bangles and earrings, had been a gift from the High Magistrate himself.

        "Right," Ella whispered, blinking back tears. "He's invited warlords and chieftains and other unmarried men with large armies. He wants you to choose one to wed me to." She remembered that much, at least. How could she forget?

        "You should be happy, Ella," Christopher snapped, exasperated. He grabbed Ella's chin and jerked her face up, turning her head back and forth, studying her face in the shifting light. "You are a woman now." He paused, something strange and frightenening in his face. "And a beautiful one," his voice dropped to a whisper, his face a mask of wonder, as if he'd never seen her before.

        Ella forced her lips into a smile, allbeit a tremulous one. She would try for him, truly, but how could she be happy when marrying would mean leaving her brother, the only person still alive who cared for her.

        "I want..." Ella swallowed, trying to force the words out through the lump in her throat. "I want to stay with you, Christopher."

        Christopher looked away, pity in his eyes, and she wished she hadn't spoken. The last thing she wanted was anyone's pity.

        "When we have our army to keep us safe, when we take back what is rightfully mine you will be by my side, you and whichever husband candidate has the largest army," Christopher explained, in his attempt to comfort her.

        Ella had thought they were safe, with the walls of Akara–the most powerful of all the city-states on this side of the Silent Sea–around them, with two realms, a desert, and the sea between them and Valoria. To get to them, the usurper-queen would have to cross the Silent Sea, Theoria, the Reynes, and the Yakal desert, and then breach Akara's walls, which had never been done before.

        Somehow, she doubted the Theorian Warlord or the Reynish Emperor would allow an army to pass through. And, even if they did, the Akaran military was one of the most powerful in the world. It would have to be, to keep the Reynish at bay.

        But she didn't mention that to Christopher. Instead, she turned away, and fumbled with the ties of the dress, not liking the feel of the too-costly materiel against her skin. It made her feel unclean, unworthy, and her a princess of Valoria. When she struggled with the ties, two slave girls stepped out of the shadows and helped her out of the its folds.

        A third slave, an older woman, had run her a bath, and was pouring jars of bath salts and scented oils, baskets of fresh flower petals, and little floating candles into the massive marble bassin.

        The younger girls rested callused hands on her elbows and guided her into the pool. Her feet carried her down, down the marble steps, deeper and deeper, until the water came up to her shoulders. She pushed through the water, petals sticking to her skin, over to the edge, where she climbed onto a waist-high stone bench, closed her eyes, and tilted her head back, waiting.

        The older slave poured a pitcher of water over her head, wetting her hair. Ella sighed as the woman began scrubbing her scalp, washing her hair with a sandalwood-scented soap.

        This was what she loved, being treated like a queen, being waited on, feeling powerful. Power. She wanted–no! needed–power, and her brother thought to take what little she had from her. That would not do. She was a princess of Valoria, daughter of Queen Arabella and King Roger, one of the last of a dynasty.

        "Christopher!" she called, bracing herself. Eyes still closed, she heard the sound of her brother's shoes on the tile floor. Unlike her, he'd continued to wear Valorian-style garb, despite its inconvenience in the desert heat. She'd come to prefer the light stola, palla, and laced sandals. 

        "What?" he asked, rather peevishly, coming to stand at the basin's edge. Ella almost groaned, tired of his moods and self-entitlement, but stopped herself. She needed him, she told herself, needed his affection, so he might share his birthright with her.

        "Sweet brother," she made her voice honey-sweet and wheedling. "As you love me, please, give me the honor of helping to choose my husband."

        "Why would I do that?" he asked, his words bitter acid. It was no less than she'd expected. He would never bend to the wishes of a woman–at least, not easily, not without a bit of a fight.

        "Because you love me, and wish me to be happy," she wheedled. "Because I am your sister, a princess, by right of birth, and do not wish to wed a man inferior to me in power or intellect."

        She knew she had him there. Christopher's greatest obsession was birthright, and what had been taken from him. She'd never thought that she felt similarly until then, until she realized her words had a ring of truth to them. 

        "What harm could it do?" her brother asked doubtfully. "You are my baby sister, the last of my family. We are the last of our line, of our dynasty. We are who we make ourselves. What harm, indeed?" Ella heard the grin in his voice, and felt a smile of victory start to creep across her face.

        We are indeed the last of the Roths, she thought, after all, and the world is what we make of it. Christopher is right about that.

        The slaves helped her out of the bath, rubbing her dry with rough drying cloths. The older woman slid a silk robe over her shoulders, and Ella shrugged it on, her arms gliding through the sleeves. The woman cinched it at the waist with a thick leather belt.

        The youngest girl braided her golden curls into a single long braid, while the other slave offered her a pair of soft leather slippers.

        Finally, she glanced up at Christopher. Her brother stared at her, pensive, green eyes intense. Behind him, her reflection flickered off the water in the pool.

        She stepped up to the tiled edge, and looked. If there was one thing she missed from Valoria, it was looking-glasses.

        For the first time, she saw herself not as a girl, but as a woman. Her breasts, though not large, were well-formed, and she had curves anyone would envy. Her face was not as round as she remembered, her chin set more stubbornly, her mouth less petulant and more tantalizing. She'd always been pretty, but now she had become beautiful, had grown into her womanhood well, without the gawkiness of most girls her age. Her mother would have called her fortunate, and Ella was inclined to agree.

        She smiled at her reflection.

        The day felt like victory.

A/N: Another surprise update! I must be feeling generous today! As I said, I had an extra chapter in reserve, and I wanted to apologize for not updating at all this week, so I decided to give you guys a little present. Again, sorry about that!

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