All the silver mirrors were turned away from her.

She had arranged them so - tilted at careful angles, avoiding any full reflection. A glimpse was enough. A cheekbone. A painted lip. The suggestion of beauty, rather than the confrontation of it.

She already knew what she would see.

An illusion.

She sat before her vanity, a gothic altar bathed in candlelight, painting her lips with lacquered red - the color of a kiss before the kill. She reached for her golden comb, running it through her cascading waves. Not a single strand moved unless permitted. Every lock obeyed.

"Wouldn't it be nice," she sighed as she ran her comb through her platinum curls, "to have a single part of me that was real?"

Her black stilettos sat at the foot of her chaise, polished to a sinful gleam, waiting for her. Not merely vain footwear - no, they were so much more. Once a man, a rebel with a cause against the Conclave. Now he assumed the rightful place of all males: Beneath her.

And soon, he would be on her.

"How fortunate for you," she cooed, reaching down to trace one lacquered nail along the subtle arch of the shoe. She could feel the essence inside the leather. "You no longer have to play the role of the big, strong man. No more delusions of strength. No more tiresome speeches about justice, about freedom." She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. "Now, you have what every man seeks. A true, tangible purpose." A slow, indulgent sigh followed, as if savoring the truth of it. "You exist to serve me. To carry me. To be the footing I rely on. A doormat for a queen." She arched her foot. "Accomplishment looks good on you." She tapped the toe against the floor - once, twice - just to remind him who dictated his every movement. "And I abso-fucking-lutely do hope you're comfortable down there. We have forever, after all, you and I. And should I ever tire of you?" A breath of laughter, almost pitying. "I wouldn't free you. No, no." Her voice softened to something intimate. "You would be tucked away in a pretty little shoe box, locked in some forgotten wardrobe. Out of sight, out of mind. A footnote to my legacy."

The shoes pulsed with silent resentment, but remained mute. She knew he was listening. He always did.

Her smirk deepened. "Oh, you are still so proud, little man." She let out a low, delighted chuckle, dragging one stiletto closer, admiring its flawless craftsmanship. "I like that about you. It makes this so much more... intimate."

She took her time, drawing out the moment, before slipping one foot inside.

A jolt - a sensation of warmth, weight and ownership. She took the other shoe and pressed her toes against the insole, savoring the resistance before sliding her foot in full, slow, deliberate, feeling the leather tense, flex, and finally submit. The fit was exquisite - tight as a secret, seamless as a lie. She flexed her toes inside the stiletto. He clung to her like a second skin.

"Good boy. How soft you've become," she said. "Perfect fit."

Suddenly, the magic parchment beside her quivered violently. Carlotta sighed. An update. She snapped her fingers. It unfurled, frantic ink shifting as a disaster were scribbled onto its cursed surface.

CRISIS ALERT! ABSOLUTELY UNHINGED SITUATION WE ABSOLUTELY MUST ADDRESS IMMEDIATELY:

THE FAIRY UNION REMAINS ON STRIKE, DEMANDING A SIX DAY-WORK WEEK, PAID WINGSPAN, FULL CELESTIAL BENEFITS, LEGALLY MANDATED NAP BREAKS IN SUNBEAMS, AND AN END TO GLITTER-BASED DISCRIMINATION.

She skimmed the list with all the enthusiasm of a queen reviewing tax reforms.

She let the parchment drop onto the vanity with a dull slap. "The fairies - my, my, what a tiresome little drama." She rolled her eyes. "They're throwing a tantrum, unionize themselves into irrelevance, because people keep 'appropriating their aesthetic'? How tragic! As if whimsy has ever been copyrighted. What's next, a patent on glitter?"

Duty called.

Carlotta took her time standing, making sure he felt every contour of her feet. Each step forward was a declaration of war. She had to talk the fairies out of their tantrum over glitter theft.

"Oh, do you remember? The way the world used to yield beneath you?" Her voice was a slow, deliberate drawl, laced with a venomous sweetness. "That strength in your step, the weight of your own body moving through life pretending to be such a big, strong man - commanding space just by existing?" She let out a soft, wistful sigh, a parody of longing, as if reminiscing on a past that wasn't even hers to grieve.

She lifted her foot, just enough to give him the illusion of relief - before pressing down again, harder this time, the stiletto sinking into the plush rug. "Ah, but really - what was all of that compared to this?" Her voice dipped into something almost indulgent as she flexed her toes within the coffin of the sole, feeling the tension of leather stretched tight with silent resistance. "Tell me, how does it feel to be so perfectly feminine in your usefulness?"

"You should be proud. No, skip that - you should be honored. Most are destined to be trampled beneath the weight of insignificance and forgotten by the relentless march of time." Another step. Another exquisite press of her heel. "But you are a part of every entrance I make. You carry me, support me, ground me – and you will witness my ascension within the Conclave. Could you truly say your previous existence ever held such meaning?" She sighed, taking a slow, deliberate step across the marble floor that echoed throughout the gothic halls. Her foot pressed down with a quiet, deliberate authority. "It must feel good to be so chosen. I envy you, truly. I surely wished that my mother had chosen me the same way I choose you every single day. I have other shoes, you know - countless, in fact - but I always wear you. You wear me so well. And I rely on you." She chuckled and threw a loose lock of platinum curls behind her ear. "Quite literally."

Just before leaving her estate and walking out on the dirty streets of the capital, she slowed - one foot hovering in the air. She paused for a moment while grinding the other heel slightly.

"Talk to me, my pretty little shoe," she commanded as she snapped her fingers to dissolve the barrier that had kept him mute. "I do miss your oh-so-clever little insights."