Aria's pov
I picked myself up from the floor, it was not a place for me. Staying on the floor meant that I have been defeated and that cannot just happen.
Isabella would have the final victory and I would lose. I will not lose.
My hands moved with the deft precision of someone accustomed to handling delicate tasks. Despite the rugged exterior honed by years in the army, my fingers danced nimbly over the fabric of my dress, pulling the needle through with practiced ease.
I have always found solace in needlework, an art passed down from generations but my mother was not around to teach me but I learned it was her favorite thing to do so I taught myself. I had embraced it as a way to escape the harsh realities of the life I chose, something to remind me that I was still a lady underneath the armor.
I couldn't appear in front of the court with a torn dress, that would raise a lot of questions that I didn't want.
