The bruises had faded into memory—no more than a whisper of ache when she moved too quickly or pressed too hard. Aylin could feel her body healing, knitting itself together in a way it hadn't in years. The tonics no longer burned her throat, and Sasha's cream no longer stung when applied. Only the memory of pain lingered in her muscles like a cautionary echo.
She stood in front of the mirror now, her reflection clearer than it had been in weeks. The shadows under her eyes were lighter; her skin no longer drawn tight with weariness. She looked... different. Not fragile, not broken. Just real. Aylin. Still standing.
"Try to look less like you're going to a funeral," Aimee muttered beside her, adjusting the hem of Aylin's tunic. "You're not about to get buried; you're about to get gloriously fitted."
Aylin gave her a sidelong glance. "You're taking this tailor meeting very seriously."
