Ophelia fidgeted, her fingers anxiously twisting the hem of her thin hide dress. She wasn't sure how to describe the feeling, but it was there—a tiny, gnawing unease sitting at the pit of her stomach.
Her lips pursed, then un-pursed. Her toes curled, then uncurled against the rough fur beneath her. Finally, she did what anyone in her position would do—she stole a glance at Isabella.
Isabella, who had just single-handedly shattered every illusion Ophelia had about her own appearance.
It wasn't that Isabella had been mean, exactly. No, the words had come out so smooth, so certain, as if she had been listing facts as unshakable as the sun rising.
But now, those words weighed on her.
Was her scalp really… struggling?
Was her skin truly just existing instead of glowing?
And oh heavens, her lips.
A quiet sigh left her as she pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging herself in the dimly lit hut.
