Roxa yawned and blinked against the early sunlight flooding the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the curtains a brilliant white. She rose and padded naked to her armoir. Stretching like a cat, she grinned at her own reflection, remembering her dreams. She’d been back home at the Rose Keep, where waterfalls tumbled down fern-covered cliffs of granite and rose quartz, and thousands of birds wheeled and drank the mist and called to each other. She’d been out riding with a lovely girl and they’d returned to the keep and fallen right into Roxa’s silk-sheeted bed…

Roxa made a wry face. It had really been two months, hadn’t it? Glittering tits, she’d known the Yavanese were uptight about sex, but somehow she hadn’t really expected to suffer the consequences herself. She knew that there was some delightful frisson of attraction between herself and her cute roommate, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and Roxa was not about to push Mila at all if the Opali girl wasn’t ready.

Roxa pulled on a shift and brought out her practice blade for exercises. As she began to limber up, she considered her quiet, self-possessed roomie. As soon as they’d met, Roxa knew she wanted to be friends and had done her best to set Mila at ease. There was something about the girl that made Roxa want her trust, made her want to win her over, to make that firm mouth curve into a smile—Roxa groaned as she finished a set and dropped her arm. She mopped her brow and paced the room a little, breathing heavily.

She was so mysterious! Roxa began another set. Perhaps Roxa was being too much, coming off too strongly? Perhaps Roxa had scared her, made her retreat like a snail into her shell? This thought sank her heart a little because the truth was that Roxa was really, finally feeling like she could be herself, away from the Duchy and away from everyone who knew her as ‘m’lady’ and, most of all, away from her mother’s shadow.

Roxa was the spitting image of her mother, the Countess Sasha Monir—everyone said so. They were both tall and well-proportioned, and moved with a grace that hid spring-loaded, coiled strength. Roxa had her mother’s reddish-golden hair, her pale, freckle-dusted skin, and her sorcery.

Sasha Monir was the foremost enchanter of the Duchy, a legend in her own lifetime. As far back as Roxa could remember, at dinner parties or banquets or on the hunt, her mother was the center other people revolved around. Every conversation in a room would quiet when she spoke, everybody else would dim. It was more than her power as a sorcerer or as a Countess. People just...parted before her like water before a mighty ship. And the expectations!

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Roxa finished another set, sweat dripping off her. She carefully sheathed and stowed her practice blade, then dropped to the wood-paneled floor and began huffing her way through push-ups. Adults and children, everyone in Roxa’s life had seemed to conspire to have her turn out the same as her mother. And so...she had? Or at least, she’d tried.

Classes had always come easy to Roxa. Highest marks in her year in Charms, Summoning, Changing and Dueling. Hawking, riding, spycraft, all of them came easily to her. Her classmates and her teachers had always treated her with admiration, respect, even awe—and stubbornly deferential distance. Though Roxa had always had people around her, she’d hadn’t had many close friends. Turns out pedestals aren’t the best foundations for friendship.

Roxa grimaced. She could still hear her mother counseling her on the strategic advantages of aloofness. Roxa wanted to reject that lesson with her whole heart. And when her mother took a diplomatic post at the Imperial capital in Drago, she’d jumped at the chance to study at Harmine, away from her mother, away from those damned courtiers with their pressures and comparisons and conniptions and their bemused indifference to Roxa’s ribald jokes. Good riddance.

She got to her feet, panting, and headed to the washroom at the end of the hall. So this was it, her chance to make actual friends that didn’t know her mother from some broad in an oil painting hanging in the dining hall. Meeting Mila for the first time, she had rejoiced internally. A commoner! A foreigner from a place where they didn’t even have nobility! Someone who had no idea how to treat her as someone special! Someone who didn’t want to use Roxa as a piece in games of prestige! And it had been so easy and liberating to be herself with Mila.

Except...was Roxa doing it wrong? She chewed her lip. Mila was holding herself back, that much was clear. Which was fine, obviously. The only way to play this was with patience and openness—trust at Mila’s pace, on Mila’s timeline. Not rushing or needing anything from her. Roxa nodded, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the spray of hot water, her mind set.

Besides, there were plenty of other students to befriend or to tumble into bed with. If only she could find some Yavanese that didn’t kiss like cold fish. They must exist...