She dropped the article of clothing to the ground and dug out the shoulder guards. Tempest hissed as she got a good look at them. Or rather—a look at it. There was only one, a singular shoulder guard made of overlapping plates of lilac-stained metal on top of silver chainmail, complete with dozens of hanging chains that were present for purely aesthetic reasons.
Bloody useless reasons.
With care, she set the damned thing next to its disgrace of a breast plate. She brushed her finger over one of the fine delicate chains. Winters bite. It would be impossible to untangle the chains. If she’d had her way, Tempest would have tossed the shoulder guard across the room.
Finally, she pulled out the last pieces of her ensemble.
“Ridiculous,” she snarled quietly.
She pinched the thigh-skimming black leather skirt that had been cut into ribbons and the deep purple half-cape that, she assumed, was to drape over her bare shoulder.
“It can’t be that bad,” Dima, another one of her uncles, added softly. “Put on the basics and we’ll help you with the rest.”
“Basics?” she murmured. They hadn’t given her the basics. Her gaze moved back to the top. One wrong move, and her tits would be shown to all. Tempest held her hand out over the screen. “I need my half corset.”
A beat of silence, and then rustling.
Normally, she wasn’t shy. Living with men nearly all her life had taken most of the embarrassment away, but when Maxim’s hand reached over the screen holding her dingy corset, heat scorched her cheeks. Tempest snatched the undergarment from his scarred fingers with a quickly muttered thank you.
A shiver ran down her spine as she pulled her sleep-shirt off and unwound the band from her breasts. With deft hands, she snapped the corset in place and stepped outside the screen, presenting the room with her back.
“Could someone lace me?” she asked, her voice just a touch too high.
“I’ve got you,” Maxim muttered, his tone gentle.
Tempest stared blankly at the grey wall as her uncle cinched her corset. Of all the things she imagined for Trial day, this wasn’t it.
“Is that too tight?” her uncle asked, knotting the corset strings.
She wiggled and then jumped in place. Her breasts didn’t budge, and she could breathe, so that was a plus. “It’s fine.”
With scalding cheeks, she moved behind the screen and plucked the feathered nightmare from the floor. She clasped the buckle around her neck and waist, securing the raven-feathered bodice. Next, she painstakingly adorned the lilac-stained shoulder guard. Frigid chains slid over the bare skin of her biceps and back. Tempest shuddered and rubbed at her arms, hating the feeling of being so exposed.
Tempest bent to pick up the skirt and shimmied it over her thighs, settling the high leather waist beneath the bodice. She glared at how much of her legs were on display. She looked like a trollop. How was she supposed to fight in such a state?
She clenched her jaw and came to a decision that wouldn’t earn her any favors from the king. Tempest would wear his gifts, but she would do it her way. The warrior way.
“Could you pass me my leather leggings?”
Someone tossed them over the top of the screen, the leather slapping her in the face.
“Thanks.”
Tempest tugged on the familiar pants and sighed as the soft black leather caressed her legs, bringing with it a modicum of calm. She snatched the cape from the floor and kicked the garment bag against the wall. Now all she had to do was leave the sanctuary behind the screen.
Be brave, Temp. It’s just fabric.
She blew a periwinkle strand of hair from her face and twisted her lips in distaste. She would also have to wear her hair hanging free. She didn’t like that one bit; it would be a disadvantage in combat to have such free-flowing hair
“I should have cut it all off,” Tempest muttered before venturing out from behind the screen.
Silence. Pure silence greeted her as she moved to the trunk at the end of her cot. It was difficult to ignore the looks of her uncles and fellow Hounds as they appraised her outfit.
“Is he trying to get you killed?” Maxim burst out first.
Tempest’s mouth popped open in shock. That was treason, and she knew she wouldn’t be the only one to think so.
Dima’s tall, thin form stepped next to Maxim and he slapped the hulking man on the back of the head. “Are you stupid? You’ll get her killed with your nonsense.”
Maxim scowled and rubbed at the back of his head and gestured toward Temp. “Do you have eyes? She’s completely vulnerable.”
Dima turned his calculating gaze on her and cocked his head, his deep blue braids slipping over his shoulders. “Is that all you have?”
Tempest swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “Among other things.”
She turned back to her trunk and yanked out her metal gauntlets and pulled one over each of her forearms. Next, she tugged on her boots that she’d shined the night prior. Her stomach rolled as she plucked a comb from the chest and yanked it through her hair. Pain pricked her scalp, but she welcomed it. It helped her focus.
With a final tug of the comb through her hair, she threw her mother’s bow onto her back and made sure her sword and dagger sheaths were secure. Murmurs followed her as she moved to stand in front of the mirror. Tempest studied her reflection, inspecting her overall outfit with a begrudging sense of admiration. She supposed she did look good. Great, even. But playing up to her femininity—not to mention indulging in the theatrics so beloved by the royal city of Dotae—made Tempest somewhat uncomfortable. She wanted to be judged on her ability to act as a Hound, regardless of gender. Tempest certainly didn’t care she was female, and nor did the rest of the Hounds.
My uncles.
She glanced at Maxim and Dima who were whispering heatedly between the two of them. Tempest counted herself lucky to have been raised by them. She crept out of the barracks and strode toward her favorite thinking place.
The training yard was still empty. The sun was hanging low on the horizon, and morning drills did not start until it had fully risen and the Hounds’ bellies were full. Tempest nimbly jumped onto the fence, swinging her legs below her after she’d settled into a perfectly balanced sitting position on top of the narrow wood. A faint breeze blew her hair around her face, tangling her loose locks together.
“I really should have cut it,” Tempest whispered, echoing her sentiments from before, though Madrid—the intimidating Head Hound—had ordered her not to. For the Trial, at least. It was clear they thought it important to play up the fact Tempest was a young woman, no matter that she’d been training with the Hounds far longer than most of the other trainees her age.
“Will you stop complaining about your hair?”
Tempest stilled for just a moment, then relaxed as the familiar frame of Dima joined her. He leaned against the fence, frowning as he stared straight into the rising sun. The man was as tall, lithe, and thin as he’d been the day he’d found five-year-old Tempest, and his midnight-blue hair was just as dark as it had always been, but there were a few tell-tale lines of ageing around his eyes. Though Dima was quiet and reserved—he rarely showed his emotions on his face—he always seemed to know when Tempest needed somebody either to talk to or to act as a patient ear for her complaints.
“It’s stupid that I cannot tie it back today,” Tempest said, but even as she spoke, she realized she sounded like a petulant child. For a moment, it seemed as if Dima might smile at her, though Tempest knew that was all but impossible; the man had smiled at her just three times in her entire life.