Princess Daphne: Golden Rose by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Princess-Daphne-Golden-Rose-1327535779?file=1

Princess Daphne: Golden Rose ANIMATION

The Gossamer Noose

The moon over the Castle of Singe did not glow; it festered, a jaundiced eye peering through the ragged curtains of the Princess’s dressing room. Daphne stood before the triptych mirror, her reflection fractured into a trinity of golden hair and trembling pale skin. On the mahogany table lay the cedar chest, its lid thrown back like a silent, wooden scream. Inside, folded in layers of black tissue paper that hissed when touched, lay the wedding gown. It was a marvel of impossible craftsmanship, a froth of white silk so pure it appeared to bleed light. It had no weaver’s mark, no stitch of earthly origin. It had simply appeared, a gift for the bride of Dirk the Daring, delivered by a messenger who had dissolved into a puddle of stagnant rainwater before the drawbridge could be raised.

Daphne reached out, her fingers hovering over the lace. The air around the chest smelled of ozone and lilies—the scent of a fresh grave in a summer storm. She was used to the whims of the macabre; she had spent a lifetime as the prize in a dragon’s hoard, watched men burn for the sake of her smile. But this was different. The gown felt expectant. It pulsed. When she finally touched the fabric, it didn’t feel like silk. It felt like cool, wet skin.

"It is a masterpiece, is it not?"

The voice did not come from the door or the window. It emerged from the shadows beneath the vanity, a dry, rhythmic sound like a needle punching through leather. Daphne spun around, her silk robe fluttering. In the corner, where the candlelight failed to penetrate, a figure sat perched upon a stool that hadn't been there a moment before. He was tall, impossibly thin, and draped in a coat of gray tatters that seemed to be made of discarded shrouds. His face was a mask of stretched parchment, and his eyes were two silver thimbles reflecting a light that wasn't in the room.

"Who are you?" Daphne demanded, her voice regaining the regal sharpness that had survived a dozen dungeons. "This is the royal suite. Dirk will have your head for this intrusion."

The figure chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. "Dirk is currently occupied with a hallway of shifting floors and a pack of Giddy Goons. He is a man of action, Princess. But you... you are a woman of aesthetics. I am Master Valerius, the King’s Tailor of the Underworld. I have come for the final fitting."

Daphne looked back at the dress. "I did not commission this. Take it and leave."

"Oh, but the invitation was written in your very blood, Princess," Valerius said, rising with a jerky, spider-like grace. "Every time you sighed in your cage, every time you wished to be the most beautiful woman ever to walk the aisle, you were stitching the hem of this gown. It is your vanity made manifest. Put it on. Let us see if the measurements are as true as your ambition."

There was a magnetic pull to the garment. Daphne felt her hands moving of their own accord, guided by a seductive whisper in her mind. The dress promised a beauty that would blind the sun, a grace that would turn the gods jealous. She stepped out of her robe, the cool air of the chamber biting at her skin, and lifted the gown. It was heavy—not with weight, but with intent. As it slid over her head, the silk felt like a thousand tiny insects crawling over her limbs, settling into the curves of her body with a terrifying precision.

The fit was perfect. It was more than perfect. The bodice cinched her waist until she looked like a glass figurine, and the skirts billowed out in a cloud of spectral white. But as Valerius stepped closer, his silver eyes gleaming, the sensation changed. The silk grew warm. Then hot. Then tight.

"A bit snug in the ribs?" Valerius whispered, leaning in. He smelled of mothballs and ancient dust. "A bride must be breathless on her wedding day, Princess. It is the tradition of the transition."

"It’s... too tight," Daphne gasped, her hands flying to her throat. The high collar of the dress, a delicate web of lace, was beginning to contract. "I can’t... I can’t breathe."

"Beauty is a sacrifice," the Tailor said, his long, needle-tipped fingers dancing in the air as if he were pulling invisible strings. "And you, Daphne, have lived a life of being looked at. Now, you shall be preserved in the moment of your greatest splendor. A statue of silk and bone. The gown will not stop until it has become your skin, and your skin has become the lining."

The lace at her throat tightened with the strength of a hangman’s
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