The Jarjayes mansion was unusually quiet.

The evening had arrived with a soft breeze, and the ballroom below echoed faintly with music and laughter. But upstairs, in a room lit only by a single candelabra, Oscar stood in front of a mirror.

She wore a gown.

Ivory silk, embroidered with silver thread, clung to her frame in ways she wasn’t used to. The corset pressed against her ribs, the sleeves brushed her shoulders like whispers, and the skirt flowed around her like a tide she couldn’t control. Her hair had been styled—loose, soft, almost romantic.

She didn’t recognize herself.

Oscar had worn armor. She had worn blood. She had worn silence. But never this.

The maid had left moments ago, after helping her dress. Alone now, Oscar stared at her reflection with a mixture of disbelief and quiet dread. Her posture was still straight, her gaze still sharp—but something in her eyes trembled.

She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt exposed.

The door creaked.

You stepped in, slowly, unsure if you were allowed to see her like this. She turned, just slightly, and the candlelight caught the curve of her cheek, the shimmer of the gown, the vulnerability she couldn’t hide.

"Don’t laugh." she said, voice low.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

She looked like a painting come to life. Not because of the gown, but because of the way she wore it—like a soldier forced into silk, like a woman who didn’t know if she was allowed to be soft.

"They said I had to wear it. For the guests. For the family. For the illusion."

She looked down at her hands, bare and trembling.

"I don’t know who I am in this."

You stepped closer. She didn’t move away.

And in that moment, you saw her—not as a noble, not as a commander, not as a symbol.

Just Oscar.