Chapter 108

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  The shop door creaked open suddenly, and in strode an Irish wolfhound, majestic and imposing. His massive frame was cloaked in shaggy gray fur, his eyes gleaming with the quiet assurance of a true master. He moved with deliberate slowness, as if the entire place belonged to him more than to the tailor himself.

  "Oh!" the tailor exclaimed, his smile widening in delight. "My faithful assistant has arrived! Come here, Zeus. Meet my esteemed client—Lord Balthazar."

  Zeus approached me, his enormous paws thudding softly against the wooden floor, nearly making the planks groan under his weight. Next to him, I felt tiny and fragile, like a child's plaything dwarfed by a giant. He lowered his broad head and began sniffing me thoroughly, from head to toe, as if debating whether to devour me now or save me for later.

  "What... is he doing?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady, even as my heart pounded like I'd stumbled upon some monstrous beast in the wilds.

  "Oh, no need to worry, Lord Balthazar," the tailor said, twirling his mustache with a flourish. "Zeus is just memorizing your scent. He'll deliver your order wherever you may roam. Rest assured, there's magic in his veins. This hound can track you straight through the ether, without even needing to sniff the ground."

  I glanced down at the beast. His gaping maw revealed sharp fangs, and his fur shimmered faintly in the shop's warm lamplight. *With his size,* I couldn't help thinking, *he could serve as a mount for me—or a war machine in battle.*

  Zeus lifted his gaze to meet mine. There was no malice, no warmth—just a dispassionate acknowledgment: he knew me now, and if the need arose, he'd find me anywhere.

  My eyes drifted to my new... companion. "Slave" felt wrong, like a bitter thorn in my throat. She stood nearby, utterly still and silent, as if the bustling chaos around us didn't exist. Yet my gaze kept returning to her, drawn like a moth to a flame.

  The tailor noticed, of course—his keen eyes missed nothing—and he perked up instantly, as if reading my thoughts like an open book.

  "My intuition tells me I must warn you of something crucial in advance," he said with dramatic flair. "I'm afraid to disappoint, Lord Balthazar, but women's attire will cost more than men's. Beauty demands its price... and wealth adores beauty in return."

  I let out a heavy sigh.

  "This world's economy is utterly broken. Money slips away like sand through fingers."

  "Ah, such is life," he replied sagely, nodding with mock solemnity. "Convenience always comes at a cost. It reigns supreme over thrift. You could save a few gold coins, but then you'd pay in time or discomfort instead."

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  "Oh... so you're a philosopher too?"

  He bowed slightly, clearly pleased with himself.

  "A touch, perhaps."

  Then, whirling toward his assistant with sudden energy, he barked an order:

  "Fetch the stockings!"

  I nearly choked, coughing in surprise.

  "Wait. She'll wear regular socks. No stockings!"

  The tailor froze, as if I'd uttered the foulest heresy. His mustache quivered in outrage.

  "This is a crime against aesthetics!" he cried, clutching his chest dramatically. "Your exquisite companion cannot be condemned to plain socks. With legs like hers, it's a sin to hide them in drab sacks!"

  "She'll wear socks," I insisted stubbornly. "End of discussion."

  "How can you utter such horrors, Lord Balthazar!" He feigned a stab to the heart, as if I'd wounded his very soul. "Socks?! You're shattering the harmony of form itself!"

  The argument dragged on endlessly. He bombarded me with tales from fashion tomes, anecdotes of duchesses and courtesans, waving sketches and swatches like weapons. I held my ground with a single, repeated word: "Socks." But in the end, his torrent of eloquence, his unyielding passion, buried me under an avalanche of words. I surrendered, feeling as if I'd been debated into submission by a library come to life.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I lost.

  "There we go," he said smugly, handing over the bundle that, inevitably, included stockings. "Trust me, when you see her in them, you'll thank me."

  I glanced at my companion. She remained silent, indifferent—as if it made no difference whether she wore rags or royal silks. That apathy gnawed at me more than the entire debate.

  *No living being could be this submissive...* I pondered uneasily.

  The tailor, basking in his victory, rubbed his hands together and vanished behind a screen. Moments later, he emerged with several neatly folded packages.

  "For such a companion, I recommend a dress," he declared with the gravity of a high priest unveiling a relic. "Nothing ostentatious, but one that accentuates her figure. Dark gray, with subtle silver threading. Stern in repose, yet it dances beautifully in motion."

  He unfurled the fabric. The dress was simple yet elegant, as if crafted for a noblewoman's daughter rather than a silent captive.

  I nodded wordlessly.

  They dressed her right there, behind the screen in the fitting room. When she emerged, the shop fell silent for a heartbeat. Even the tailor raised his eyebrows, as if surprised by how flawlessly his creation suited her.

  She stood before me, the dress hugging her slender waist and cascading over her long legs. The lightweight material flowed like water over her form, and even the muted gray couldn't dim her doll-like beauty.

  But her expression remained unchanged. The same void in her eyes. The same mute obedience.

  The contrast twisted something deep inside me.

  *If she smiled, even just a little...* I thought wistfully. *She might seem alive. But like this... she's just a doll wrapped in pretty cloth.*

  The tailor rubbed his hands in satisfaction.

  "See, Lord Balthazar? I was right. Your companion now looks every inch a lady."

  I smirked faintly.

  "More like a mannequin in a shop window."

  "Your companion is fortunate indeed," he continued, circling her appraisingly. "The dress fits as if tailored just for her. And even better, the fabric's enchanted for eternal cleanliness—no stains, no odors, no need for washing. You could roll her through mud, and it'd emerge pristine."

  He turned to me, his smile softening into something almost pitying.

  "But for you, Lord Balthazar, luck isn't so kind. You're... well, too petite. Off-the-rack won't do. We'll need measurements and a custom sew from scratch."

  I grimaced but held my tongue.

  "A few days, and it'll be ready," he added cheerfully. "In the meantime, select a design. Even practical garb deserves style."

  I pondered the options.

  He spread out dozens of samples: severe dark suits, flowing cloaks, even garish doublets that made my teeth ache just looking at them.

  "I want it stylish," I said finally. "But not flashy. Let it draw the eye through sheer elegance. I'm no clown to parade in colors, nor a shadow to fade into the crowd."

  The tailor nodded, his eyes sparkling with approval.

  "An excellent vision! Clean lines, pure form—there's power in that. Your attire will ensure no one forgets you."

  I merely grunted.

  *Fine. If I'm paying the price to survive in this world, I might as well look the part.*

  The tailor buzzed around me, stretching his tape measure across my shoulders, waist, and limbs. I stood still, enduring it, though irritation simmered beneath the surface. It felt humiliating—too small for ready-made clothes, forced to wait like a child while his mother commissions a special outfit.

  My gaze shifted to my companion.

  She lingered a step away, hands folded demurely over her abdomen, as motionless as a statue. But in that instant, her eyes flicked toward me—not the vacant stare of a puppet, but a sharp, assessing glance. As if she were probing: *What is he capable of? Who is he truly?*

  A pang shot through my chest. For a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a living soul behind the mask.

  Then it vanished. Her face smoothed into perfect blankness, her eyes dulled, and it was as if nothing had happened.

  *There,* I realized. *She knows how to hide her emotions, bury them under that facade. Which means there's more inside. Not just silence. She's waiting. Watching. Thinking.*

  The tailor slapped my shoulder lightly, jolting me from my reverie.

  "All set! Now it's up to my craftsmanship. In a few days, you'll have an ensemble fit for legend."

  I nodded absently, my mind elsewhere—not on clothes, but on that brief, too-vivid glance.

  Before we left, the tailor bowed deeply once more, gesturing grandly toward the door.

  "Lord Balthazar, everything will be crafted to perfection. Expect your order soon—stylish, severe, and utterly memorable."

  I acknowledged him with a curt nod, handing over 200 gold coins for the enchanted wardrobe. It was exorbitant, but I paid without fanfare.

  "I'm counting on you. Don't disappoint."

  "Ah, I've never let a client down," he assured me, his mustache twitching with zeal.

  I turned and headed for the exit. My companion followed, her steps light and soundless. Behind us, the tailor's contented hum echoed like a fading melody.