The fabric was a weapon. That was the only thought Gwen could muster as the handmaidens of the Southern Palace pulled the corsetry tight with a rhythmic, clinical brutality. The dress was a masterpiece of architectural cruelty, woven from literal threads of spun gold and encrusted with raw diamonds that felt like needles against her sensitive, overwrought skin.
At eight months pregnant, her body was a temple of exhaustion. Her belly was a heavy, pulsing weight that strained against the rigid structure of the gown, a living force trapped within a tomb of luxury. The gold was cold—unnaturally so. It possessed none of the radiant warmth of the sun she once commanded.
"Stand still, Your Majesty," a handmaiden whispered, her eyes downcast, refusing to meet Gwen's gaze. "The King of the South does not tolerate a single crease in the royal silhouette. To fail the silhouette is to fail the crown."
