Mini Trial

The soft glow of your phone's screen illuminates the dimness of your dorm room as you read the message from Tyche. The task is simple enough, just accompany a bride-to-be for her shopping trip, a favor for the goddess of luck herself. You’re not thrilled about it—it's not really your scene—but you’ve grown accustomed to carrying out odd, and often uncomfortable, requests from gods.

Liam, of course, seems far too eager for this outing. He's been insistent on helping you prepare, reminding you of things you’d normally overlook.

“C’mon, just a little makeup, at least,” Liam’s voice rings out, casual but persistent as he leans against your doorway, arms crossed. “It’s not like you’re going for a beauty contest, but… well, you know.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, shaking your head. “Liam, it’s just a damn mall trip. I’m not about to—”

“Trust me, you want to at least look presentable. I don’t think Tyche would appreciate you looking like you just rolled out of bed, you know?” His tone is teasing but sincere. You can tell he’s trying to avoid anything awkward or overly feminine, but still—he's insistent.

“Fine, fine,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’ll do a little.”

The truth is, you don’t need the makeup. You’ve had enough of all this. The curse, the constant physical changes, the way your body betrays you every time you look in the mirror. Your hair, longer now than you’ve ever had it, brushes your shoulders with a soft femininity you can’t quite escape. It’s maddening. The sound of your own voice—so soft, so gentle—only adds to that. Yet, despite your hatred of it all, you know it’s necessary. A quick fix, a little touch-up here and there, and you'll be in and out of this errand. Or so you hope.

The makeup is simple—nothing dramatic, just a soft touch to make you feel more normal, or at least like you belong in this world of the gods and their petty games. You apply a bit of foundation to even out your skin, something light that doesn’t scream effort. A dash of mascara to accentuate the femininity your lashes have developed, and a soft, neutral lip gloss—just enough to make your lips shine. It’s so subtle you hardly recognize yourself, but it feels wrong in all the best and worst ways.

There’s something about the way your fingers move across your face—delicate, careful—where you can’t help but notice how feminine it all feels. How your hand, once so strong and assured, now moves with a strange fluidity, as if guided by something else, something that belongs to someone you can’t quite name.

You look into the mirror, taking in the image of the person staring back at you. You know who you are. Or you used to.

After a long moment of staring, you turn and grab the clothes you’ve chosen for the day. It’s not much—a simple silk blouse in a soft, pale pink that complements your complexion, and a pair of high-waisted tailored trousers in charcoal gray. The blouse is light, easy to move in, but still undeniably feminine. You hate it. But the trial requires it. The feminine charm is something you can’t shake off.

Your choice of shoes, thankfully, is more neutral—black stiletto heels that offer just enough sophistication without veering into flashy territory. You curse Aphrodite under your breath for this part of your wardrobe.

“Ready yet?” Liam asks from the doorway, still grinning. “Looking pretty cute, if I do say so myself.”

You give him a glare, a feigned look of annoyance. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Regret what?” he teases, but there’s a faint glint in his eye. “You look fine, really. If you weren’t so—you about all this, I’d say you’ve got the charm. Aphrodite would be jealous.”

You sigh deeply, pulling your long hair back into a loose ponytail. The length of it almost feels like a weight now. You’ve gotten used to it, but that doesn’t mean you like it. Not one bit.

The hum of the mall envelops you as you step inside, the familiar echo of busy shoppers, the scent of perfume mingling with fresh food court aromas. It’s a busy Saturday afternoon, and your brain immediately tries to disengage from the environment around you. You’ve been here before, of course—shopping for yourself. But now, it feels completely different. Not because you’re in a different mood, or because you’ve changed in some deeper, existential way, but because this is so… girly. This whole thing—this whole trip—feels so undeniably feminine, and you can’t seem to shake it.

Serena is already waiting for you near the entrance, scrolling on her phone with a look of casual confidence that only certain kinds of people can pull off. When she spots you, she lights up with a smile that’s almost too perfect, like she’s been practicing it in front of a mirror.

She’s stunning frustratingly so. Her long dark hair cascades down her back in loose, flowing waves that shimmer with a natural sheen. Her skin is a warm, smooth caramel tone that practically glows in the mall's fluorescent lighting. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and framed by thick, curled lashes that give every glance she throws your way a teasing, knowing quality.

But it’s her body that draws the most attention. Serena’s wearing a fitted cream blouse with a subtle lace trim along the sleeves and neckline, modest but flattering. The fabric clings just enough to emphasize her figure—her bust, full and perfectly rounded, probably a D-cup or larger, presses lightly against the fabric with each breath she takes. Her waist curves in sharply, accentuating her hips, which flare out in a way that makes her pencil skirt hug her thighs snugly. The skirt is navy blue, hitting just above her knees, revealing smooth, toned legs that lead down to a pair of low-heeled beige sandals. It's the kind of outfit that's both classy and casual—appropriate, which only makes it worse somehow.

You hate that you notice. You hate that you can’t stop noticing.

“Hey!” Serena calls out, her voice smooth and upbeat as she waves you over. Her smile grows wider as she walks up to meet you halfway. The bounce in her step causes a little sway in her hips, completely unintentional but impossible to ignore. Of course she walks like that naturally, you think bitterly, trying to keep your eyes from tracking her every movement.

“Hey,” you say back, giving her a polite smile. Get in, get out, be done with it.

Serena’s eyes flicker up and down your frame, her gaze quick but thorough. Her lips curl into a grin, and she tilts her head slightly. “You look cute! I was kind of expecting you to be, I don’t know, chill today, but you’re definitely giving 'bridesmaid chic.'”

You glance down at yourself. It’s comfortable, simple, and, most importantly, neutral. At least, that was the goal. But the way she says it makes it feel like you tried, like you put in effort, which makes your stomach churn.

“Yeah, well, figured I’d at least look... presentable,” you reply with a shrug, hands shoved in your skirt’s side pockets. Not a big deal. Not a big deal at all.

Serena smirks, eyes still on you as she leans in slightly, her voice low and teasing. “Mission accomplished.” She turns with a little flip of her hair and motions for you to follow. “C’mon, let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to do before I plan my bachelorette this evening.”

The sound of your heels clicking against the floor makes you wince, a rhythmic reminder that every step you take feels different now. There’s a weight to it—the weight of your body’s shifting center, the sway you can’t stop even when you try. It’s like walking on autopilot, but the programming’s been swapped for something different. The worst part is how natural it’s starting to feel.

Serena leads you into one of the larger department stores, and the second you see the rows of formalwear and bridesmaid dresses, you already feel the headache forming. Dresses in every shade of white, cream, and blush hang from the racks, each one more delicate and dreamy than the last. You glance at them out of the corner of your eye, half-hoping you won’t be asked to participate. But, of course, you know that won’t happen. Why would it?

Serena moves with the energy of someone who loves this process. She’s already plucking gowns from the racks, holding them up to the light to check the fabric, pressing them against her body in front of the mirror. She hums to herself, lost in the excitement. Her movements are fluid, graceful, like she was meant for this kind of thing.

“Oh, this one is cute,” she says, holding up a blush-colored dress with lace sleeves. She tilts it toward you. “Don’t you think so?”

You blink, trying to muster some kind of response. “Yeah, looks... fine.”

“‘Fine?’ Girl, come on,” she says, clicking her tongue. “You gotta give me more than that. I’m not looking for 'fine,' I’m looking for perfection.” She gives you a pointed look. “Help me out here.”

You sigh, stepping closer. The fabric looks soft, delicate, and the lace on the sleeves is intricate. You run a hand over it, feeling the texture. You hate that it’s pretty. You hate that you can even appreciate that it’s pretty.

“It’s elegant,” you admit quietly. “Simple, but elegant.”

Serena beams like you just gave her a golden ticket. “_Yes! _That’s exactly what I was thinking.” She hangs it on a nearby hook and continues her search.

The next thirty minutes are a blur of fabric, colors, and constant questions.

“Do you think this neckline’s too low?”

“Which one’s more ‘timeless,’ this or this?”

“Would this color look weird in the photos?”

Every question feels like a mini-**** on your brain. You try to stay helpful, offering input here and there, but most of the time, you’re just nodding and going along with it. It's easier than arguing. Easier than thinking about how trapped you feel.

At some point, she pulls out a dress—a light silver number with a plunging neckline that seems to defy gravity. She holds it up against herself, biting her lip as she checks it in the mirror. Her eyes catch yours, and she grins.

“Be honest,” she says, raising a brow. “Too sexy for a wedding, or just sexy enough?”

You swallow, and your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth like it’s on autopilot. Your teeth graze your bottom lip, and that same gnawing feeling you’ve been ignoring all day comes rushing back. The itch, the urge, the overwhelming need to have something in your mouth. It’s constant now, this feeling that won’t leave you alone. You run your tongue over your teeth and take a sharp breath through your nose, trying to calm it. It only makes it worse.

“Uh, definitely on the sexy side,” you manage to say, your voice tighter than it should be. You glance away, focusing on a nearby rack.

“Right?” she says, laughing as she twists to see herself from a different angle. Her chest shifts with the movement, and you hate how hard it is to not notice. “I mean, it’s for the reception, so I can be a little scandalous.”

Her eyes dart to you again, playful and mischievous. “You should try something on too. I bet you’d look _killer _in one of these.”

“No thanks,” you say quickly, eyes locked on the floor. “I’m good.”

She laughs, but it’s a soft, knowing sound. “Alright, alright,” she says, moving on. “But I’m telling you, you’d turn some heads in one of these.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s only half-hearted. This trip is already long, and it’s only going to get longer. You bite down on the inside of your cheek as Serena moves on to the next rack, talking to you like you’re just one of the girls.

You hate how easy it’s getting to play along.