I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the stone floor of the main hall when I heard the familiar voice from the entryway. The scent of lavender and warm bread wafted in ahead of her, a signature combination that could only belong to one person.
"Hello, child," Lisa called out, her voice carrying that maternal warmth that always made my chest ache with memories of my own mother. "How are you doing? You should not be doing any strenuous work when you are pregnant, my dear."
I sat back on my heels, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, and smiled up at her. "I’m okay. This is nothing compared to how I lived before."
The words slipped out automatically, a deflection I’d perfected over months of careful conversation. I never disclosed my past life in another world to Lisa. How could I explain that I’d once lived in a place where floors cleaned themselves with electric machines, where water came hot from taps with the twist of a handle? She would think I’m crazy or possessed by spirits. So I kept my secrets buried, let her believe I was simply some ape beast from a distant, secluded primitive village.
"Ah, that reminds me," Lisa said, her eyes brightening with the pleasure of someone bearing gifts. She reached down and lifted a wooden basket that had been sitting beside her feet, one I hadn’t noticed until now. The weave was intricate, willow branches interlaced with practiced skill, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something that made my heart stutter in my chest.
"Here you are," she said, extending the basket toward me. "These are yours from when you were staying at our home. I had the maids clean out the bed chamber and they found this stuff hidden behind the stone bed. I remember you were wearing it when you first arrived, looking so lost and frightened." She pressed the basket into my hands, her fingers warm and soft against my calloused palms. "So I thought maybe you wanted it back."
I looked at the basket and swallowed hard. My throat tightened, a lump forming there that I tried desperately to push down with another swallow, but it wouldn’t budge. My hands trembled as I took the basket from her, the weight of it surprisingly heavy, impossibly heavy for what should have been just a few scraps of fabric and leather.
I set it on the table and sat down. My fingers hovered over the woven lid for a moment, suspended between fear and desperate longing. Then I lifted it.
There they were.
I had been so consumed by my life with my mates, so overwhelmed by pregnancy and bonds and the daily struggle of survival in this world, that I had somehow forgotten about my things. Not forgotten, perhaps, but buried the memory so deep it might as well have been forgotten.
I reached in with shaking hands and lifted out my blouse first. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, the white cotton now a rusted brown, the blood that somehow came with me from the old world still clinging to me when I laid dying in the old world when Hyunwoo shoved me and I lost my balance falling three stories down. I ran my thumb over the stain, remembering the fear, the pain, the moment my old life had ended, and this new one had begun.
Next came my skirt, the pencil skirt I’d worn to work that final morning, also stained with blood.
My bra lay beneath the skirt, the lace trim now gray with age and disuse. I had discarded it after learning to make my own undergarments from flax seed thread, softer and more comfortable without the metal wires.
Then I saw my purse.
The leather was cracked now. I opened it with reverent fingers, and there inside lay my phone, its screen forever dark, just a lump of useless metal and glass now, its battery long dead, its connection to my old world severed completely. I pressed the power button out of habit, knowing nothing would happen, feeling the hollow click beneath my thumb like a heartbeat that had stopped.
My compact mirror came next, the silver casing tarnished but intact. I opened it and almost laughed at my reflection, distorted by the small surface, my face fuller now, my skin still soft from the almond oil moisturizer I made each month though I’d lost that perfect glass-like clarity I’d once prided myself on. My eyes held shadows and wisdom that hadn’t been there before. Oh, how I missed you, I thought at the mirror, at the girl who had once checked her makeup in this same glass before heading to work, before heading to bars or going on dates with that jackass Hyunwoo before he became too embarrassed to be seen with me, before heading to a life that no longer existed.
The mascara tube was dried to uselessness, the wand caked with black flakes that crumbled when I touched them. My wallet still held my ID, my face frozen at twenty-four, smiling with the confidence of someone who believed she understood how the world worked. The credit cards were worthless rectangles of plastic now, the cash inside colorful paper with no value here. I ran my thumb over my driver’s license, over the address that no longer existed for me, over the name that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
And finally, my lipstick. The tube was warm from my body heat, or perhaps just from the room, the red shade I’d favored still pristine, untouched since the day I’d arrived. I uncapped it and smelled that familiar waxy scent, chemical and artificial and so perfectly, achingly modern. It probably wouldn’t even look good on me anymore.
The tears came then, spilling down my face before I could stop them, hot and silent and overwhelming. They weren’t tears of sadness, not exactly, but of recognition, of grief and gratitude twisted together so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. I was crying for the girl I’d been and the woman I’d become, for the world I’d lost and the home I’d found, for the technology and convenience that had been stripped away and replaced with something rawer, harder, more real.
I turned to Lisa, my vision blurred, my voice breaking as I managed to choke out, "Thank you... seriously, Lisa. Thank you so much."
She didn’t ask why I was crying over old clothes and trinkets. She simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, her embrace smelling of baking bread and maternal comfort, holding me together while I fell apart.
"Dear child," she murmured against my hair, "why are you crying? These are happy tears, yes?"
"Yes," I managed to say, the word muffled against her shoulder.
The door burst open then, the heavy wood slamming against the stone wall with enough force to make us both jump. Leon stood in the doorway, his chest heaving from running, his golden hair wild around his face, his eyes wide with panic.
"Mother," he barked, his voice loud and sharp with worry, "what are you doing to Krys? Why is she crying?"
Lisa pulled back from me and turned on her son with the full force of maternal authority, her spine straightening, her eyes narrowing. "You rude child," she scolded, her voice carrying the whip-crack of a mother who had raised four sons and tolerated no disrespect. "How could you raise your voice like that to your mother? Have I taught you nothing?"
Leon flinched, the anger draining from his face to be replaced by shame. He dropped to his knees before her, suddenly looking like the boy he had been rather than the fierce warrior he’d become, and wrapped his arms around her waist in an adorable display of filial penitence.
"I’m sorry, Mother," he said, his voice muffled against her makeshift top. "When I saw Krys crying, I instinctively reacted. I apologize again."
Lisa huffed, but her expression softened. She smacked him playfully on the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind him of his place. "I didn’t bully your mate, you foolish boy. I came by to bring her old belongings, things from before she came to us."
She extracted herself from his grip and turned to me, her eyes lingering on the scattered remnants of my past life spread across the table. "I’ll take my leave," she said gently. "Take care of your mate, Leon. And learn some manners before you come to my home again."
She swept out with the dignity of a queen, leaving me alone with my lion prince, who immediately moved to my side and knelt beside the bench, his hand finding mine.
"What is all this?" he asked softly, his thumb tracing over my tear-stained cheek.
"Memories," I whispered. "Just memories."
After Leon left to resume his duties, promising to check on me every hour, I found myself alone with my relics. I sorted through them slowly, touching each item with the reverence of an archaeologist examining artifacts from a lost civilization. The compact mirror caught the afternoon light, casting prismatic patterns on the wall, and I found myself studying my reflection with a critical eye I hadn’t used in months.
My lips were chapped. My cheeks had lost the artificial flush I’d once painted on every morning. My eyes were defined by nothing but their own shape, the lashes bare and honest.
And then it hit me.
I looked through my things and realized something I hadn’t put my hands into making yet. I could make cosmetics. Like blushes, and eyeshadow. Maybe some lip gloss. The knowledge flooded my mind with sudden, electric clarity, recipes and methods I’d learned from YouTube tutorials and beauty blogs, from my mother’s bathroom counter and my friends’ makeup bags, all those hours of experimentation and artistry that I’d abandoned as frivolous in this new world of survival.
But it wasn’t frivolous, I realized now. It was expression. It was identity. It was taking control of how the world saw you and how you saw yourself.
I need to see what we have to get this started, I thought, my mind already racing with possibilities. I smiled suddenly, a plan forming with the speed of inspiration. Rhonda, Layla, and now I have Mirena. I can use them as my dolls. This is perfect for the females in this world.
The next morning, while the cubs slept in a warm pile of paws and twitching tails and my mates occupied themselves with training, I claimed one end of the kitchen as my workshop.
I arranged my tools across the stone table with the careful precision of a healer preparing for treatment: shallow clay bowls, a stone mortar and pestle, scraps of tightly woven linen, carved wooden spoons, purified fat, beeswax, seed oil, and the plants and minerals I had spent weeks collecting.
Nothing here could reproduce the polished cosmetics of my old world. I had no preservatives, refined pigments, or glass containers. Anything made with fresh fruit or water would spoil quickly, and every powder had to be ground and sifted until no sharp fragment remained.
Still, nature had given me color.
I began with the ripe blackberries Layla had brought from the forest. I crushed them in the mortar until their skins split and released a dark purple juice, then strained the pulp through several layers of linen. The liquid could not be mixed properly with fat or wax, so I kept it as a separate stain and poured only a small amount into a lidded ceramic pot.
Brushed directly over the lips, it dried to a deep berry shade. It would last only a few days before spoiling, but a thin coating of balm placed over it softened the color and prevented the lips from becoming dry.
For a gentler pink, I used raspberries that I had dried completely in the sun. I ground them into powder and sifted them through linen until only the finest dust remained, then added a pinch of dried beetroot to deepen the shade. The color was subtler than anything I remembered buying from a store, but it left a delicate rosy tint that looked soft and natural.
The hibiscus flowers from the field near Layla’s home gave me another possibility. After drying the petals, I crushed and sifted them before stirring the powder into purified tallow warmed over a low flame. A little beeswax gave the mixture firmness, while a few drops of seed oil kept it smooth.
The result was not the brilliant ruby red I had first imagined. Plant pigments behaved differently without modern processing. Instead, the mixture became a creamy tinted balm that left the lips faintly flushed while protecting them from the dry air.
I made another balm for shine. I clarified fat from the previous hunt by melting it slowly, straining it through linen, and repeating the process until it became pale and nearly scentless. Into that, I stirred fragrant seed oil and enough beeswax to keep it from melting too easily.
For fragrance, I warmed a sweet flower and a shaving of aromatic bark in the oil, then strained them out before pouring the mixture into a small pot. Once cooled, the balm left a smooth golden sheen across the lips. It was not true gloss, but beneath the light, it shimmered beautifully.
For blush, I turned to the earth.
I collected red clay from the riverbank, washed it repeatedly to remove grit and sand, then left it to dry before heating it near the fire. Once it was completely dry, I ground it into powder and sifted it several times.
The red was far too strong on its own, so I mixed it with pale arrowroot powder until it softened into a warm rose. Before putting it anywhere near my face, I tested a little on the inside of my arm and waited for any sign of irritation.
When nothing happened, I swept the powder over my cheeks using a small brush made from clean rabbit fur bound to a carved wooden handle. The color settled gently across my skin, creating a warmth that looked like a natural flush rather than paint.
The eye colors required even more caution.
I had collected mica flakes from the creek bed because they caught the sun like pieces of broken starlight. I washed them thoroughly, ground them as finely as possible, and discarded every piece that felt sharp between my fingers. Mixed with a little oil and beeswax, the powder became a soft cream pigment that shimmered in shades of bronze, pale gold, and silver.
For darker colors, I used finely ground charcoal. Turmeric created a warm yellow-gold, while dried beetroot produced a muted burgundy. Powdered green leaves gave me a faint forest shade, though it was far less vivid than the shadows from my old world.
The colors were earthy, imperfect, and quick to fade.
That made them beautiful in a different way.
For eyeliner, I ground charcoal into an almost weightless powder and combined it with clean water and a drop of acacia gum. The gum thickened the mixture into a smooth black paste that I could apply using a narrow brush made from fine horsehair. I’ll get the horse hair from Rhonda mate...hopefully he won’t hate the idea.
Because the liner contained water and no true preservative, I made only enough for a few uses. Anything left too long would be discarded.
By the time I finished, the stone table was crowded with small ceramic pots and carved wooden boxes. I scratched a name into each lid with the point of a knife.
Berry Stain. Hibiscus Balm. Rose-Clay Blush. Golden Lip Salve. Bronze Mica Shadow. Charcoal Liner.
They were crude compared to the cosmetics of my old world. The berry stain would spoil within days. The plant colors faded quickly. The powders were less refined, and every new mixture had to be tested carefully before it touched anyone’s face.
But they worked.
I stood back and looked over the little collection, pride warming my chest.
In this world, beauty had always been treated as something a woman either possessed or did not. Something decided by birth, bloodline, and the judgment of others.
Now, for the first time, I will be giving the women of Askalda something different.
A choice.
I looked at my collection, at the rainbow of possibilities spread before me, and felt a connection to my old self that I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was creating. I was bringing beauty into this world, not just accepting what it offered me.
And tomorrow, I would share it. I would invite Rhonda and Layla and Mirena, and I would paint their faces like the canvases they were. I would show them that there was power in adornment, strength in beauty, and that being a female in this world, what’s wrong with a little upgrade?
---
The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of trees as I set up my station in the clearing behind the main house. I’d laid out my creations on a flat stone. Small ceramic pots of berry stained lip color, jars of clay blush ground to fine powder, the charcoal eyeliner mixed with gum Arabic, and the mica eyeshadows that caught the light like captured stars.
"Sit," I commanded, patting the moss covered log I’d positioned in the sunlight.
Rhonda raised an eyebrow but complied, settling onto the makeshift seat with surprising grace. "You’re sure about this?"
"Trust me," I said, dipping my fingers into the raspberry tinted balm. "Close your eyes."
I worked with the focus of an artist, applying the charcoal liner first, drawing a thin line along her lash line that made her pale eyes pop with startling intensity. The clay blush came next, dusted across her cheekbones with a rabbit fur brush until her face held the flush of a woman in love. Finally, the lip stain, dark as wine, pressed into her skin with my fingertip.
"Open," I instructed.
She did, and I held up my compact mirror, the silver casing catching the light.
Rhonda gasped. She reached for the mirror with trembling fingers, turning her face this way and that, watching how the colors shifted with her movements. "Krys... what is this sorcery?"
"It’s not sorcery," I laughed, though my chest tightened at her wonder. "It’s just... something from where I came from. A way to enhance what’s already there."
"What do you call this thing?" Layla breathed, leaning closer. "It shows your face clearer than still water. Is it enchanted?"
"It’s called a mirror, the only one in this world," I said softly, the truth settling between us. "There are no others like it."
I turned to Layla next; I used the hibiscus cream on her lips, a softer pink than Rhonda’s bold stain, and the turmeric mica blend on her eyelids that made her brown eyes glow like amber. The blush I applied higher on her cheekbones, giving her face a lifted, ethereal quality.
When I showed her the mirror, she covered her mouth with both hands. "Is that truly me?"
"A better you," I said, squeezing her shoulder. "You look like you but amplified."
Mirena sat last, her sea green eyes wary but hungry for the transformation she’d witnessed. I went bolder with her, using the deep berry stain on her lips, the charcoal smudged slightly for a mysterious, smoky effect, the mica dusted across her collarbones where her tunic dipped low. She was already striking. Now she was enchanting.
"Look," I said, holding the mirror before her.
Mirena stared at her reflection for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled, slow and sharp. "The males won’t know what hit them."
"That’s the idea," I grinned.
We were admiring the final results when the sound of approaching footsteps rustled through the underbrush. Rhonda’s panther mate emerged first, his dark eyes finding his wife immediately. He stopped so suddenly he nearly stumbled, his mouth falling open.
"Rhonda?" The word came out strangled. "What... how..." He approached as if in a trance, his hand reaching to cup her face, careful not to smudge the color. "You look like a dream."
Layla’s horse mate arrived next, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air, his equine senses confused by the new fragrances. The vanilla, the almond oil, the subtle floral notes. Then he saw her. His shift was instantaneous, man to beast and back again, his control shattered by the sight of his mate transformed into something radiant.
"Layla," he whispered, falling to his knees before her. "My heart. My light."
He nuzzled her cheek, her neck, making her giggle as he breathed her in. "You smell like flowers and honey. You look like the sunrise. How is this possible?"
I watched them, these fierce warriors reduced to awestruck boys by nothing more than some berry juice and clay and felt a warmth spread through my chest. This was why I’d missed cosmetics. Not for vanity, but for this power. The power to make a woman feel seen, desirable, like art come to life.
Then I glanced at Mirena.
She sat alone on the log, her reflection still held in the compact mirror, her face carefully arranged in its usual mask of indifference. But I saw it. The tightness around her eyes, the way her fingers clutched the mirror’s edge until her knuckles whitened, the slight tremor in her jaw.
She had no one coming for her. No mate to stumble over his feet at her transformation, no male to whisper poetry and nuzzle her throat. She was beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than either of the others with her fierce sea born features and the bold colors I’d used, but there was no one to tell her so.
She caught me watching and her expression shuttered further, the mirror snapping shut with a click that seemed too loud in the quiet clearing.
"It’s fine," she said, her voice sharp enough to cut. "I don’t need some male to validate my appearance. I know I’m magnificent."
"You are," I agreed softly, taking the seat beside her. "And when the right one comes along, he’ll see it too. Without any of this."
She looked at me then, her pale green eyes suspiciously bright. "How did you know? Before your mates. How did you know you were worth waiting for?"
I thought of my old world, the bars and the bad dates and the loneliness that had followed me like a shadow even after I started dating that asshole hyunwoo. "I didn’t," I admitted. "But I learned that being alone doesn’t mean being incomplete. And that the right person, or people, will see you clearly even without the paint and the powder."
Mirena was quiet for a long moment, watching Rhonda and Layla being adored by their mates, watching the way the afternoon light caught the colors on their faces.
"Keep that mirror safe," she said finally, her voice rough. "Something that shows truth so clearly is rare in any world."
She stood, smoothing her sea grass tunic, lifting her chin with the pride that was her armor. "I’m going to the river. The fish won’t care if my lips are stained, and I need to hit something."
"Mirena..."
"Don’t," she cut me off, but her voice had softened. "I’m happy for them. Truly. I’m just..." She paused at the tree line, looking back once. "I’m just ready for it to be my turn."
I watched her go, the bold berry stain I’d applied still perfect on her lips, her shoulders straight and strong, and I prayed that whoever finally saw past her armor would be worthy of what they found.