She can feel the chill burst through her all at once. The shiver up her back and the burning in her limbs, the cold creeping fear in her stomach and the sting of ice inside her chest, as if an enormous crystal had taken root inside her and expanded out through what should be her flesh in a matter of seconds. Her muscles clench, and she squeezes Beljani hard enough to draw a yelp. And then as quickly as the feeling came, it goes. Bella is herself again, standing tall and alone as she watches the latest transformation of Redana Claudius. She takes several deep breaths until she can sort through the various smokes and incenses enough to pick up the Princess. This is wrong. She is wrong. There's no lazily hidden tinge of sweat anywhere near her, no flashes of mint or orange on her breath where she'd normally have hastily shoved something in her mouth to cover the pungency of the illium delight she wasn't supposed to be eating. Each little thing is a new cluster of wrong. But it must be her. Every step closer Bella takes confirms it. That's the rough, sandy smell of her hair. That's quiet and annoyingly soothing aroma of her skin. That is her specific perfume, down to the exact ratio of ingredients with each flower arranged atop the one beneath it with precision worthy of the Empress. Bella pauses as she pushes several Azura to either side of her, and sniffs again. Deeper. She can't find the acid tang that means it's really Mynx over there. Of course she can't. Of course it's not. Eyes that cold could only belong to Redana. There's no warmth in Bella's eye, either. What idiot could make room for nostalgia in a moment like this? With every step she takes, the sea of sycophants parts in front of her. Where it won't, she sweeps it aside with rough shoves and a quiet hiss at any words of protest. Her dress ripples like a living thing atop her, and her body bounces alluringly underneath it. Every step that brings her closer draws more eyes. The sea parts more readily. The nerves chip away from her face like ice scraped off a window, until by the time Redana finally turns from her duties to see what the commotion is Bella is a wall of raw, frigid determination. She reaches Redana after stepping over the shell of a battlecrab that either couldn't or didn't want to take the hint of the moment. Not a word passes her lips. What would be the point? Threats, promises, and questions always fell on deaf ears. Now there's no more time; one of them is a prisoner, or the other is a corpse. These are simply the moments where they watch each other to see which one of them is which. Bella's tail curls tightly behind her back, and unfolds again with an irritated flick. The design of Beautiful's dress does not allow for a curtsey; it's too tight, without enough trains to gather even if it physically allowed for the particular form of submission a maid is meant to owe a princess. There's a spark of something like defiance in her eye, and though she doesn't smile for a moment she even seems amused. She dips into a slight bow, the barest minimum of ballroom etiquette, and sweeps her arm across her chest while her jewel-woven hair swings behind her with a dozen chimes. She rises again, and stretches to her full height. She sniffs again. Nothing is different, except that she has a plan to follow. And if something as simple as punching Redana in the stomach and dragging her unconscious body back to the [i]Anemoi[/i] was meant to work, those would be her orders. She snorts. Bella turns her body slightly, offering herself to Redana in profile. She reaches out with her right arm, palm turned up toward the ceiling, and waits with the distance of a single gesture between them. The stillness of her body hides the hammering of her heart. Her skin is crawling with secret terrors: something is wrong here. Something is horribly wrong. She tilts her head in question. Well, Princess? Will you dance?