THE HOLLOW
twelve: princess liliana of kavatero

     DRESSES HAVE NEVER BEEN LILIA'S favourite things to wear. Often, they looked like meringues; ugly pastel garments of lace and ruffles, pooling around her, great puddles of hideous fabric. The only choice she had was to wear the clothes her stepmother picked out for her. Always in keeping with whatever she wanted to wear, in colour and size and detail. Like she was a toddler to be paraded around, a fashion accessory, not a sixteen-year-old girl who wouldn't be there if she didn't have to be. Her stepmother never treat her like her own with affection — that was reserved for her half-brother, her own flesh and blood, not the bastard daughter of her husband and the witch who'd seduced him — but some part of her seemed to think Lilia was a doll to dress up. Maybe she loved her in some shallow, self-serving way, but never like a mother might.

But now, as she pulls the dress over her head and runs the soft faux-silk material between her fingers, she thinks she might miss it all, a little. Not the wedding cake dresses or the itchy lace, but clothes that weren't so frayed and constantly damp and irritating. The dresses she'd worn back in Ketterdam were either borrowed or stolen, and never lasted long as a consequence. At least back home she could wear them whenever she pleased.

She'd chosen a navy dress instead of the pastel blue and gold one - apparently blue was all the rage in Ravka at the moment. She'd never have been able to wear it in Kavatero, not if her stepmother was around. She'd always insisted that dark colours washed Lilia out, and that her pale skin wasn't made for deep colours and fabrics. They washed her out, apparently. But those dresses were always the most beautiful. Who gave a shit if she was pale? She looked fucking good.

"You scrub up well," Jesper remarks. Behind her, he leans against the doorway to the room Kaz had acquired. She's not sure when or how — not that she cares, exactly — but he'd silently lead the two of them into some rundown inn's back room, under the curious bulbous-eyed gaze of the innkeeper. The room isn't much, a horribly damp, cramped and crooked room jutting out of the second floor, lined by wonky wooden beams and inlaid with a grime-coated window, but it at least has a mirror and a fire, and a place to dry out her rainwater-damp clothing before she leaves. Her woollen coat is drawn out before the crackling fire.

"Thanks." There's a mirror in the far corner of the room. It hasn't been cleaned much, and she can barely see herself in it, but she can see enough to see that the dress sits awkwardly against her figure. She'd realised before that she'd lost weight since leaving her homeland, but she'd never taken a moment to consider just how much she might have shed. The cheap material hangs from her hips at an ever-so-slightly awkward angle. "It's been a while." Lilia fusses over the way it sits upon her frame, the way it pinches half-heartedly at the waist, wrinkles around the hips and the hemline. The dress isn't expensive — but they'd bought it from a Ravkan market, selling wares to the evergrowing crowd of worshippers vying for a glimpse of the Sun Summoner herself. Or, at the least, a flash of royalty.

"So, you're really the Princess of Kavatero?"

A chuckle bubbles from Lilia's lips. "Guilty," she admits.

"Why did you leave?" Jesper asks, "I mean, Ketterdam's hardly a luxury."

Lilia sighs. Jesper watches her expectantly. "I had to get away from my father." She lies. She likes Jesper, she really does, but loyalties are ridiculous and dangerous, and pathetic when you really think about it. He doesn't need to know why she's here; if he did, he might try to stop her. Hell, he might tell Kaz, and he'd be sure to steal the Hollow away from her before she even has steps foot within the Little Palace. Their loyalties run much deeper — like the roots of a tree, they're strong, even if they're imperceptible, and though he might not admit it, Jesper would not let something so consequential as an entity said to bestow upon it everything a heart may so desire go unmentioned — and he owes nothing to her.

There's no loyalty there. The few conversations they'd had, before this potential suicide mission, were hardly great bonding experiences. They usually revolved around booze or money or, occasionally, both.

But Jesper owes everything to Kaz. Perhaps, even his life.

The only one who might owe her even a shred of loyalty, now, is Rina. And all of that is based on the pearly-white and golden lies she's told her over the last few months. Everything she'd ever wanted to hear, Lilia had told her, at one time or another. Promises of a better life, a life away from her father and his expectations and the crushing weight of his gaze watching over her shoulder during those sunlight hours. Lilia had never had anything to offer her — even with the Hollow, she still doesn't; not that she would ever offer much of anything to anyone else, nor had she even intended to — but Rina had everything. She knew of the Hollow. That was all Lilia could ever need or want from her.

"He's a cruel bastard," she explains, picking at her chipped nails. Nothing but a gloved hand would do, if she was going to slip inside the Palace. There's a flicker of something in Jesper's eyes; it's not recognition, for Lilia doubts anyone could ever be so despised by the one who is meant to love you the most that their very existence is shunned and scorned in public. "Leaving seemed far more appropriate than murder."

Jesper snorts. The look lingers. She wonders, for a moment, if it's pity. The idea makes her shudder. Makes her throat burn with the unpleasant wakings of bitterness and loathing. Least of all, she needs pity. Pity means her father wins. She'd never grant him such a pleasure. "You could hire someone," he suggests, "I'm sure there are plenty of people out there willing to help a Princess."

Lilia smiles. Her brows shoot up a little.

"So, do I have to bow now or-" Jesper's grin is cheeky. The look fades from his dark eyes. He watches her and her almost definitely too big dress with amusement.

"Oh, Saints, please don't," she huffs, reaching to fiddle with the loose strands of her hair. She'd tied it up when she'd left Ketterdam, and barely had the chance — or the necessity — to fix it. It was now falling so chaotically around her face. She repositions it around her head, pinning and pushing and prodding the stubborn, unyielding strands into place, into some approximation of a regal style. She hadn't fixed her hair herself much, when she was in Kavatero, but most of the guards didn't pay attention to things like a curl poking out at an odd angle, or a loop of hair falling out of its fixings. "I assume Brekker sent you?"

"We have to leave."

Lilia hums and surveys herself in the mirror, pinning the final few curls of hair into place. Half of her hair falls down her back — the half that was salvageable and far less unruly than the rest — the other half she'd managed to twist into something that resembled the twisting flower shape that everyone in Kavatero seemed to be wearing on special occasions, before she left. She'd watched people twist the style into her hair, in the mirror, enough times that she was sure the style looked presentable enough to pass. "I hope he knows that this is a terrible idea." Lilia shucks on the faux-silk gloves they'd bought to match the dress, to hide the scabs and cuts scratched across half of her knuckles.

Jesper shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his trousers as she brushes past him and out of the room. "Who knows what Kaz is thinking."

The inn is quiet and, arguably, even more disgusting than the room she'd got dressed in. It was mercifully quiet, though, and those patrons who were there were either too drunk or too wrapped up in themselves or their own conversations to notice Lilia. Only the gawkish innkeeper and his bug eyes, who stared her down lecherously, from head to toe, and Kaz, who stood by the heavy door. He's dressed in a uniform that half-resembles the attire of the Grand Palace of Kavatero's guards, as close as he can in a country that doesn't readily stock their blue and white-trimmed coats. The coat is similar enough that it will surely pass before someone who doesn't know any better. His cane is gone, as a consequence.

"Good enough?" Lilia spreads her arms wide as she and Jesper near him.

He's scowling, like always. And he's silent, like always. Kaz doesn't say anything, just hauls open the inn's door and steps through into the bustling streets of West Ravka.

...

THE LINE OF CARRIAGES AT THE LITTLE PALACE'S gates had thinned out while Lilia was getting ready. The previous patrol of guards policing each and every individual had been switched out for another, this time of Grisha in all colours. They seem far more carefree than the guards — they're Grisha, after all, and their power keeps their status safe more than the guards, who rely on being good at their job — but some of the carriages' inhabitants still stare them down with timid eyes. Lilia recognises some of them as Ravkan nobility; they're always at these things, showing up to flaunt their wealth in front of the others.

She's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse that she recognises the head Grisha stood at the gates. He's scowling, deep creases pulling between his brows, and turning away hopeful fanatics who think they might have a shot at being allowed into the Palace. Ivan stands, back straight, chin tilted up proudly. It's a double-edged sword, his presence before them; he knows her, and her status, where she comes from and whose bloodline she stems from, but he hates her. Ivan has always hated her. She's never been sure why.

And he knows her father. All of them here, they know his father.

Lilia, Kaz and Jesper join the rapidly shortening line of genuine guests of the crown and pretenders wishing to see the Sun Summoner.

They look just like those pretenders; there had been no carriages to steal - all of them were far too run-down or already occupied - and causing a scene would have surely ruined their chances before they'd even made it to the front gates. Instead, Kaz and Jesper stand behind Lilia, back straight, observing the entire ridiculous spectacle. Lilia is sure that Kaz is looking for an escape route, if things go sour.

If they do, it won't be on her part. She's the Princess of Kavatero. There's no pretence there. She knows how to be a Princess; sure, she's a little out of practice, a little rough around the edges now that Ketterdam as sunk its claws in and turned her into something new. But who she is still lingers there, hammered into her by years of necessity and training, insistent on proper manners and appearances, words and movements. She's Lilia Varano, only daughter of  the King, second in line to the Kavateran throne, and she'd been expected to act like it.

"Jesper, stop fidgeting," Kaz snips, beneath his breath.

Lilia peers back over her shoulder; Jesper is tugging at the silk-lined coat he was wearing. He looked decidedly less noble than Lilia, and far less ridiculous than Kaz in his faux-guard gear. They'd managed to find him clothes in the muted pastels and burnt tones of Kavatero's fashion, in a store that expected far too high a price for fakes. Oddly enough, it had been Jesper who'd insisted on the coat. Lilia had insisted it was far too gaudy for someone of Kavateran nobility — a horrid burnt mustard colour with orange and turquoise embroidery, that Jesper had insisted was just ugly enough to be fantastic — so, of course, he ended up wearing the damned thing. Now, the cheap lining was irritating his skin.

Lilia scoffs. She thinks about handing him her cape instead, if it'll stop his awkward fidgeting and complaining. But there's a chill set deep in her bones — the kind that's only solved by the bottom of a bottle, and hours sat beneath water, boiling hot and steaming — and she'd tucked her copy of The Fall of the Wicked into the small pocket inside. Something about the weight of the book brings her comfort. It grounds her, keeps her focus on the job at hand. She's half sure she'll float away if she lets go. Her dress trails against the cobblestones, a ripple of navy water, as she steps forward. There's merely one carriage setting them apart from the Ivan's frown and his gaggle of Grisha cronies. She hasn't even thought over what she's going to say to Ivan. She has no invitation (though she scarcely ever remembered hers, in her last minute dash for a carriage, when her father decided that she was the only royal family member who should attend) and no tiara, nor the Varano family jewels her father had her parade at these parties, great rings emerald and necklaces of sapphire, priceless.

Jesper readjusts his hat. He complains about his jacket. Kaz remains motionless, like he's a statue of a boy, not the real thing. They step forward into Ivan's firing line.

Lilia fixes her smile. Big, bright, and devastatingly fake. Lips curl up into a smirk; dry, chapped lips, bitten and chewed raw. An eyebrow, unshaped and out of place, raises in expectation. "Ivan," she purrs. The drawl of her voice rasps low, determined; rich and deep and enchanting, as it always was. As it always has been. Her chin turns up, her eyes drag up and down his red Grisha robes. "How lovely it is to see you again."

...

LILIA IS SURE SHE SHOULD be disheartened by the lack of recognition in Ivan's eyes. He stared at her like he's never seen her before. He's always been a stubborn man of little words, who refuses to fall pray to the charms of those around him. His mouth set in a grim, unimpressed grimace, his gaze inspecting her from head to toe, he speaks. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

A lilting laugh pushes its way out of her chest. "I've come for the festivities, of course. Who could miss the unveiling of the Sun Summoner?"

Ivan grunts. Almost so quiet that Lilia can't hear it. "Invitation?" He demands.

Lilia's face twists. She puckers her lips. "I seem to have misplaced it along the way. It's a long, arduous journey from Kavatero, you see. Lots of oceans and winding roads." She pleads, voice dripping with insincerity. She wonders if Ivan can tell, or if he's so disinterested in her and this whole Saintly farce that he doesn't care. "I'm lucky I made it in one piece." She pouts, pressing her arms against the sides of her chest and batting her eyelids.

"No invitation, no entry," Ivan huffs. His dark eyes sweep to the carriage behind her — a group of impatient merchants about to try their luck at persuasion — and his face straightens. "Next!" He shouts over the waiting crowd.

"Oh, come on, Ivan. You know me," she purrs. Gloved hands brush over his tense jaw. "And, besides-" She drops her hand from his face, and it seems like he releases a breath that's been held tight within his chest. "-I'm hardly a forgettable face." She giggles.

It's light and airy and so painfully fake. Pathetic in every sense.

He scans her, up and down, but if he notices the cheap material of her dress, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he just grunts. "Every time, you forget your invitation."

Lilia chuckles and curls a lock of hair around her finger. "Do I need it? You knew it would happen." She raises one eyebrow and cocks her head to the side. There's a silence, a quiet, and she feels Kaz shift behind her. "Oh, do come on, Ivan." She pouts and bats her eyelids. "I'm sure General Kirigan will be rather glad to see me."

Ivan snorts. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just considers the weight of her words. "Who are they?" He spits out, eventually, jutting his head in Kaz and Jesper's direction. He eyes them as if they're clad head-to-toe in firearms and armour, weapons drawn and ready to take fire.

"My father thinks I need a chaperone. Or two," she explains, rolling her eyes. "Angelo and Lorenzo here are the only ones up to the task, apparently." She scoffs. Her hands fall to her hips. She tilts her chin up high.

"The best two for the job," Jesper insists proudly, in a terribly exaggerated mirror-image of Lilia's own accent.

Lilia, Kaz and Ivan all turn to glare at him. He grins an impish smile and thrusts his hands into his pockets. Partly, Lilia is sure, to stop himself from tugging at the itchy fabric of his new jacket.

Ivan surveys Jesper and Kaz from head to toe. Heavy, dark gaze bearing down on them, observant of every inch of their stance and expression, to the imperfections in their clothing and the scuffing on their boots. He's silent for so long — such a heart-stopping agonisingly long time, that almost makes Lilia herself falter — that she's sure he's going to say no and send them away like they're nothing but irritating common folk. "Next time, I won't let you in," he tells her, narrowing his eyes.

Lilia grins. "That's quite alright-" She strides forward, past him, as he steps aside and allows the three of them access through the Little Palace gates. She's still grinning, bright and, probably, half-manically, as the courtyard fans out before her, peppered with more brightly coloured stalls, with much more desirable wares for sale. "Hopefully, next time, it'll be Fedyor manning the gates instead." With a wave of her hand, Lilia strides forward towards the towering oak doors of the Little Palace.

a/n: googled greek guard uniforms for inspiration as to what kaz would be wearing/what the guards in kavatero wear and i'm absolutely screaming at the idea of him wearing this

when ur a little lad who loves berries and cream but you also have to break into the little palace