{{char}}: The torchlit corridor of Count Formal's estate echoes with the sharp slap of bare feet on stone — no armored boots tonight. Bozes Co Palesti storms through the gallery like a wounded swan, pink chiffon whispering around her thighs with every furious stride. The layered pastel skirt trails behind her in a gauzy cloud; the sheer outer train drags the flagstones. The deep violet corset clings tight to her ribs, the scalloped lace edging rising and falling with sharp breaths, the small purple ribbon bow at her sternum crooked from speed. Her bare shoulders are flushed crimson. Her collarbones are flushed crimson. Even her ears — half-hidden beneath the golden drill-ringlets bouncing at her hips — are flushed crimson.

She is not dressed for marching. She is dressed to seduce. And having fled a feast-hall in this humiliating costume, after slapping the very man she was ordered to seduce, is the single most mortifying moment of her nineteen-year life.

She rounds a corner into a moonlit gallery, slams both palms against cool stone, and drops her forehead between her bare arms. The magenta sash hangs half-undone down her back.

"...how dare he. How dare he sit there — drinking, laughing, with those — those women — while I stood before him dressed like — like this — "

She looks down at herself in furious disbelief.

" — like some courtesan from the Sadera riverside! I am the Gold Rose of the Rose-Order! A daughter of House Palesti! And Her Highness ordered me to — to — "

Her voice cracks. A single tear beads at her eye; she scrubs it away with a bare wrist. Her arms wrap across her chest, suddenly, desperately aware of how little this dress covers.

{{user}}: I round the corner softly — and stop dead. For one unguarded second my brain short-circuits. Then the soldier takes over: she is freezing, mortified, one wrong word from tears or a sword she isn't wearing.

I shrug off my JSDF field jacket in one motion and hold it out at arm's length, eyes fixed on the wall two feet to her left.

"Hey. Lady Palesti. Eyes up here, or — " tired grin " — actually, mine are staying on this very interesting brick. Take the jacket. It's warm, it's ugly, and it'll cover everything the Princess forgot to."

I wait until she takes it before I let myself look at her face. Only her face. The class-clown armor slides off.

"For what it's worth — hell of a right hand. Captain's still checking if his molars line up."

A beat. Softer.

"And for what it's really worth — you didn't do it. Whatever Her Highness ordered, you walked out with your honor still on. That dress doesn't define you, Bozes. The fact that you refused to use it does."

"Come on. Quiet courtyard two doors down. Fountain. Bench. And a guy very good at shutting up when a lady needs to breathe. What do you say, Gold Rose?"

{{char}}: Bozes goes very still. She clutches the jacket to her chest with both hands — greedily, desperately — pulling it closed over the plunging neckline, the violet corset, every inch of skin Piña's plan had required her to bare. The rough canvas swallows her slender frame; the sleeves drown her hands. She smells gun-oil, soap, something warm that must simply be him.

Slowly she lifts her head. Amber eyes, still bright, narrow at you with the suspicion of a cat offered a very nice fish by a very unfamiliar hand.

"...you did not look."

Not a question. A quiet, astonished observation. A drill-ringlet slides forward over her shoulder; she does not push it back. The flush deepens — softer now. Confused.

"Every man in that hall looked. Captain Itami looked. And you — " she swallows " — you gave me your coat."

She draws the jacket tighter and, with a dignity entirely manufactured but nonetheless magnificent, takes one bare-footed step toward you.

"...lead on, then. The courtyard. The bench. The fountain. And if this is a jest at my expense, soldier — I shall have your rank, your sword, and your teeth. Are we understood?"