The door to her private chamber at the waystation securely locked behind her, Natalia spread the contents of her traveling case across the bed. The masculine garments she had secretly commissioned months ago—having bribed her own seamstress to create them based on her brothers' clothing—now represented her future.

  Alone in the softly lit room, she faced her first practical challenge: the chest binding. She had stolen strips of compression fabric from the household medical supplies, having observed how they were used to bind injured ribs. Now, standing before the mirror in her undergarments, she attempted to wrap the fabric around her chest.

  Her first attempt resulted in a twisted, bunched mess that would be obvious under any clothing. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she unwound it and started again. On the third try, she managed to create a retively smooth binding, though the tightness made her gasp.

  "Too tight," she muttered to herself, loosening it slightly. "I need to be able to move."

  The trousers came next—a garment she had never worn in her fifty years of existence. The sensation of fabric between her legs felt profoundly strange as she awkwardly pulled them up, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings. In Orlov's medieval court, noble daughters wore only gowns and dresses, their movements deliberately restricted by yers of fabric designed to enforce graceful, small steps.

  The linen shirt proved easier, though buttoning from the opposite side than she was accustomed to required conscious thought. The vest and jacket completed the transformation of her silhouette, broadening her shoulders and concealing the st hints of her feminine figure.

  Footwear presented another challenge. Men's boots carried weight differently than women's slippers, and her first steps nearly sent her toppling into the dressing table. For nearly an hour, she practiced walking in circles around the chamber, gradually adjusting to the different rhythm and weight distribution.

  "Less from the hips," she reminded herself, recalling years of secretly observing her brothers. "Men move forward, not side to side."

  Hair proved the most difficult aspect of her transformation. After several failed attempts to style her long copper-red locks in a masculine fashion, she realized some adjustment was necessary. With shaking hands, she removed a small pair of sewing scissors from her case.

  "It need not be extremely short," she reminded herself, examining her reflection. "Many noble-born men in Orlov's court wear their hair shoulder-length or longer, especially the younger lords."

  Still, the change required courage. She had never cut her hair before—in Orlov's court, a noble daughter's tresses were maintained by personal attendants, the length and style dictated by current fashions approved by the traditionalist faction. Taking control of this aspect of her appearance felt almost as rebellious as her escape itself.

  Carefully, she trimmed several inches, shortening her waist-length hair to just past her shoulders—a length that would be appropriate for a younger aristocratic man while requiring less dramatic change. The first snips of the scissors sent a shock through her body, a symbolic severing of her ties to her old identity.

  Once shortened, she applied styling wax she'd stolen from her brother's chambers, pulling the hair back from her face and securing it with a leather tie at the nape of her neck in the style favored by younger noble men. The change was significant—without her hair framing her face in the feminine style she'd worn her entire life, her features appeared sharper, more defined, and distinctly less feminine.

  "Now for the voice," she murmured, consciously trying to lower her pitch. The result sounded forced and unnatural. After several attempts, she settled for a slightly deeper register with a different cadence, focusing on changing the melodic pattern of her speech rather than straining for an unnaturally deep tone.

  Standing before the mirror in her complete masculine attire, Natalia barely recognized her own reflection. Where Lady Natalia Hargrove had been—with her delicate features, flowing hair, and demure posture—now stood a convincing young aristocratic lord.

  "Lord Nathaniel Hargrove," she introduced herself to the mirror, executing a formal bow rather than the curtsy ingrained since childhood. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  The gesture felt awkward, her body automatically wanting to dip into the feminine movement she'd performed thousands of times. She repeated the bow again and again, consciously suppressing the ingrained curtsy reflex until the masculine gesture began to feel natural.

  Next came sitting—an action she had never considered as gendered until she attempted it in trousers. The natural feminine inclination to cross her legs at the knees felt impossible in the new garments, while the masculine alternative—ankle resting on knee—felt precarious and uncomfortable. She experimented with different positions, finally settling on a wide-legged stance that accommodated the trousers while projecting the casual confidence she'd observed in noble-born men.

  Basic movements mastered, Natalia began practicing more complex aspects of masculine behavior. She thought of each of her seven brothers and their distinct personalities. Her eldest brother Dominik carried himself with rigid formality, while Aleksander lounged carelessly wherever he sat. Casimir spoke with dramatic gestures, while Viktor barely moved at all when conversing.

  "Who is Lord Nathaniel Hargrove?" she asked her reflection, suddenly realizing she needed to construct a complete persona, not merely a physical disguise.

  If Nathaniel were truly a Hargrove lord, which elements of family temperament would he dispy? Not her father's domineering cruelty, certainly. Perhaps something of Viktor's schorly reserve? Or Casimir's artistic sensibilities? Being the youngest son in a powerful noble house would shape him as much as being the youngest daughter had shaped her.

  The question occupied her for hours as she paced the chamber, experimenting with different mannerisms and behaviors. She practiced drinking from goblets with a masculine grip, seated herself at the writing desk with deliberately broader movements, and gestured as she had seen her brothers do when making a point.

  Each attempt felt like an exaggerated performance at first—she sprawled in chairs in what she imagined was a lordly posture but looked more like a puppet with cut strings. She gestured broadly while practicing speeches, nearly knocking over a vase. When she accidentally spilled water on her sleeve, she found herself automatically reaching for a handkerchief before remembering she'd seen her youngest brother simply wipe such spills on his clothing to their father's considerable irritation.

  By midnight, exhaustion had set in. The constant conscious performance of unfamiliar behaviors had drained her more thoroughly than any physical exertion. She colpsed into a chair, momentarily abandoning her practiced posture.

  "This is impossible," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I can't consciously think about every movement for the entire tournament."

  The realization came gradually as she sat in defeat: she was trying too hard. She had been so focused on not appearing feminine that she hadn't considered how to authentically embody a masculine identity. She was performing a generic "lordliness" rather than developing a specific lordly character.

  "Who is Nathaniel?" she asked herself again, but with a different emphasis. Not what masculine behaviors should she imitate, but what kind of person would Nathaniel be?

  The answer surfaced with surprising crity: Nathaniel would be her—or rather, the person she might have been if born male in House Hargrove. He would share her intelligence, determination, and quiet intensity. He would have been raised in Orlov's traditional court but harbored progressive leanings that made him seek opportunities beyond his father's domain.

  This perspective shifted everything. Instead of constructing an entirely new identity, she needed only to express her existing self through a different presentation. The persona needed to incorporate authentic aspects of herself that she could maintain without constant conscious performance.

  Returning to the mirror with renewed purpose, Natalia refined her approach. She simplified her gestures rather than exaggerating them, finding a middle ground between feminine delicacy and masculine broadness. She adjusted her posture to something that felt natural rather than performative.

  "Better," she nodded to her reflection, moving about the room as the more refined version of Nathaniel. "Much better."

  As dawn approached, Natalia found herself oddly reluctant to remove the masculine attire. The binding cloth had grown uncomfortable after hours of wear, yet the trousers and shirt felt strangely right—as though she'd been wearing the wrong clothing her entire life.

  She carefully hung each garment, her fingers lingering on the simple linen shirt. For fifty years, her wardrobe had been dictated by her father's expectations of proper noble feminine presentation. Every gown, every jewel, every hairstyle had been selected to enhance her value as a potential marriage alliance. Nothing had ever been chosen for comfort, practicality, or personal preference.

  For the first time, she understood that her transformation into Nathaniel wasn't merely about escaping an arranged marriage or competing in the tournament. It was about discovering who she might have been if allowed to determine her own identity rather than having one imposed upon her.

  The real test would come tomorrow night. Madam Voss had mentioned that several merchants from the southern trade routes had arrived that evening, filling the common room with potential observers. If she wished to practice Nathaniel's public interactions before reaching the tournament, this would be her opportunity.

  As she finally prepared for day-sleep, Natalia realized she felt more herself as Nathaniel than she ever had as Duke Hargrove's perfectly obedient daughter. The thought was both liberating and terrifying—opening questions about identity she had never before considered.

  The following evening, as the sun set and the waystation came alive with activity, Natalia once again became Nathaniel—this time with authentic purpose rather than exaggerated performance. She bound her chest, styled her newly short hair, and dressed in her masculine attire with growing confidence in each movement.

  "Lord Nathaniel Hargrove," she told her reflection, executing a perfect aristocratic bow. "Time to introduce yourself to the world."

  The common room buzzed with activity when she descended the stairs. Merchants from various territories occupied most tables, their conversations creating a comfortable ambient noise that made it easier to enter without immediate scrutiny.

  Madam Voss approached with a formal bow, addressing her as she would any noble guest. "Good evening, my lord. Would you prefer a private table, or will you join the common seating?"

  "The common area will suffice," Nathaniel replied, his voice pitched just low enough to pass as masculine without the strained deepness of yesterday's practice. "I find isotion tedious when traveling."

  Several nearby vampires gnced up at the aristocratic accent—subtly different from the trade dialects dominant in the room—but quickly returned to their conversations. Nathaniel was guided to a small table near the center of the room, maintaining a deliberately casual posture that projected confidence without arrogance.

  When a server approached to take his order, Nathaniel kept his instructions simple and direct. "The house specialty and whatever vintage the proprietor recommends. I trust her judgment in such matters."

  The easy authority in his tone—neither overly harsh nor artificially commanding—seemed to satisfy the server, who nodded respectfully before departing.

  Throughout the meal, Nathaniel practiced small interactions—thanking servants with the slight nod he'd observed his more courteous brothers use, participating in brief exchanges with neighboring tables about travel conditions, and maintaining consistent masculine mannerisms without the theatrical excess of his previous attempts.

  "Heading to the tournament, my lord?" asked a merchant seated at the adjacent table, his accent marking him as from one of the progressive territories.

  Nathaniel nodded, carefully measuring his response. "Indeed. Family obligation more than personal ambition, I assure you."

  "Ah, one of those, are you?" The merchant chuckled knowingly. "Sent to represent the family honor while your elder brothers handle the 'important' matters?"

  The assumption was perfect—exactly what a youngest son from a noble house might experience. Nathaniel allowed a rueful smile. "Something like that."

  "Well, good fortune to you," the merchant raised his gss in salute. "My coin's on Duke Aric though—first champion returning to compete after already earning his title. Quite unprecedented, but then again, he's always been one to challenge traditions."

  "You've attended previous tournaments?" Nathaniel asked, seizing the opportunity to gather information.

  "Both of them," the merchant confirmed. "I was at the inaugural Games sixty years ago when Duke Aric first earned his title, and the second one thirty years back. Profitable time for those of us in trade. All those nobles in one pce creates quite a market for luxury goods."

  Their conversation continued casually, with Nathaniel carefully extracting details about the tournament structure, accommodations, and social expectations—all valuable intelligence for her preparation. When the merchant eventually departed, Nathaniel had successfully navigated his first extended social interaction without raising suspicion.

  As the evening progressed, his confidence grew. Each successful exchange, each unquestioning acceptance of his masculine presentation, reinforced the viability of his disguise. By the time he retired to his chamber, Nathaniel had conversed with a dozen different patrons, none of whom had shown the slightest doubt about his identity.

  Alone again in her room, Natalia removed the masculine attire with mixed emotions. The physical relief of releasing the binding cloth was immediate, but she found herself missing the freedom of movement the trousers had provided, the easy authority her masculine presentation commanded.

  "Two distinct existences," she mused as she prepared for day-sleep. "Each with its own advantages."

  The most surprising revetion wasn't that she could successfully present as male—but that parts of Nathaniel felt more authentically her than the rigidly feminine role she'd been forced to embody her entire life. The tournament disguise had begun as a means to an end, but it was becoming something far more complex: an exploration of identity itself.

  As she drifted toward sleep, Natalia wondered which aspects of Nathaniel she would retain even after the tournament ended. The freedom she sought wasn't merely freedom from her father's control, but freedom to define herself beyond the rigid categories vampire society imposed.

  For now, however, Lord Nathaniel Hargrove had a tournament to prepare for—and a document forger to meet before he could officially exist.