"Saintess Aston, you must wake, for it is already the hour of Redawn. If we are tardy by the hour, we might miss our ride," a voice called, accompanied by a steady, polite knocking at my door.
I sprang from the sheets, startled that slumber had been so indulgent. "Oh! Goodness. I beg your pardon, Sir John—I seem to have overslept," I replied, hurrying into the washroom.
The light of Redawn poured in like a warm greeting as I pulled open the curtain. The air smelled of factory smoke—unpleasant, yet fascinating—for it was my first time in such a city. We had boarded a train from my hometown to the capital, Eryndral of Lysoria, and from there continued on. The nunnery had been dull; this was a world alive. Even spending the night at an inn was a first—and a welcome one. We in Quillhaven by Afternoonfall.
"Reading about them never prepares one for the real thing," I thought as I dressed in my gown, pinned my hair in an updo, and laced my boots. I had been so thrilled by the thought of seeing what I had read in novels that I quite forgot the summoned heroes—or perhaps I tried to.
With a thud of the door, I hurried downstairs, suitcase in hand.
"Good morning, Aston."
Sir John sat at a table with a cup of tea in hand.
"Good morning, Sir John," I replied, taking the seat opposite.
"It seems you managed some sleep—that will do you good," he said, eyes still on his newspaper. After consulting his pocket watch, he added, "We still have time for breakfast."
I ordered black tea and bread with butter, watching the bustle outside the window. "So, where are we going next?"
He glanced briefly over the paper, his blue eyes weighing me. "We will take a boat from here to one of the cities of Therian, where the heroes are said to be."
"Therian? The Beastkin nation!" My heart leapt. The journey was shaping into an adventure indeed.
The aroma of tea mingled with scents of stew and fresh bread. The inn was quiet—likely for lack of guests—and I was grateful for the peace.
When at last he set aside his cup, Sir John donned his top hat, took up his cane, and, after paying, led the way to the port. Farmers, caravans, and markets stirred in the Redawn light. To me, the hour always felt like a continuation of First Nightrest, yet Sir John had told me that in cities the streets never ceased breathing. "I wonder what a First Nightrest market must be like," I mused.
"Extra! Extra! Read all about it—the appearance of the heroes confirmed!" a newspaper boy shouted.
"Watch where you are going," Sir John said sharply, seizing my hand as I nearly stepped into the path of a carriage.
"It seems even the papers have received telegraphs of the news. That means everyone is aware," he murmured.
We arrived at the port a few minutes past the First Bell. Sir John purchased our tickets while I stood gazing at the Second Sun as it rose, gilding the waters.
"We can leave now," he said, lifting my luggage with surprising ease. The ship was a corvette—or so I believed—but I also saw a vast steamship that left me breathless. Once aboard, Sir John handed me a newspaper.
"Read this. It should be distraction enough."
"Distraction from what?" I wondered, though I did not ask aloud. The port was quieter than I expected. Almost as though reading my thought, he remarked, "This is a small port—nothing compared to Thalvar's or to those of Therian."
With a nod, I opened the paper. Flipping through idly, I stumbled upon something that caught my attention.
It was for my homeland.
---
On the Attire of the Five Thrones and Their Neighbors
A Travel Diary by C. Aurelian, Scholar of Dress and Memory, Lysoria
"It is a rare pleasure, dear reader, to walk the breadth of our world and watch not the swords, nor the banners, but the fabric of civilization itself—the clothes by which men and beasts declare who they are."
I lifted my gaze to the waters, breathing in the sharp salt of the sea, then read on.
---
Therian, the Beast-Clans.
Here the old robes of the dragon dynasties endure—kimono, hakama, hanfu-styled drapery—all whispering of lineage and rite. Yet beneath these silks peek polished leather boots of western make, and upon their belts, the gleam of pistols from Drakenspot. A Tiger Lord bows in flowing robe, but when he strides away, it is the heel of a boot and the weight of a revolver that echo. Fox women veil their smiles behind lace parasols—half symbol of demureness, half duel with Lysorian fashion.
"How lovely," I thought, trying to imagine such a scene.
---
Lysoria, my homeland.
We lead the march of refinement: tailcoats, bustles, corsets, gloves—all in perfect symmetry. Yet ours is no empty mimicry. We embellish with the scholar's pride: spectacles wrought in silver, quills fashioned into hairpins, jeweled pocket-watches hung like medals of philosophy. To dress in Lysoria is not merely to cover the body—it is to bind the mind in silk and ink.
The author knew what he spoke of.
---
Verdania, the Harvest Kingdom.
Here cloth and field blend seamlessly. Gowns cut in Victorian shape, aprons embroidered with flowers, shawls dyed from indigo fields. Boots are ever-present, caked in mud yet polished at the heel, for even nobility walks their wheat. Verdania dresses as it feasts: practical, nourishing, embroidered with honest labor.
"I should like to visit someday," I thought, picturing golden fields.
---
Drakenspot, the War Kingdom.
One does not dress in Drakenspot—one uniforms. Epaulettes gleam, brass buttons line every chest, sabers clink as casually as canes elsewhere. Even children play at parade drills in miniature frock coats. Yet when a noblewoman dons a gown, it is cut sharp as a blade, corset laced with military precision, boots polished like helmets. Their very silk marches.
I chuckled aloud. "These fellows are stiff indeed—but the ladies must look impressive."
---
Thalvar, the Sea Kingdom.
Fashion here is theatre. Velvet waistcoats shimmer in emerald and sapphire, lace spills from sleeves like waves, hats tilt at rakish angles. Yet beneath the pageantry lies practicality: naval coats stiffened by salt air, boots built for slippery decks, gloves for rigging as much as ballroom twirls. A Thalvar gentleman will bankrupt himself for a cravat—then tie it while standing on a dockside barrel.
"Strange indeed… but charming," I thought.
---
Altharic, the Mountain Kingdom.
Another world entirely. Dark silks, mourning veils, high collars—every gathering a procession of widows. Boots thick, iron-studded for climbing paths; canes carved of obsidian or steel. Jewelry heavy, blood-red stones mined from their own veins. Verdania dresses to live; Altharic dresses to remind you of death.
"Like vampires," I murmured, though I would not mind a pair of such earrings.
---
"Thus, across the kingdoms and the clans, one sees not a blending but a layering. Tradition clings tightly—yet new leather boots tread upon old silks. Lace gloves wrap hands that once drew only swords. Parasols shadow faces where once only banners flew. This, then, is the dress of our age: a dance between past and new, every thread a strand of history."
—C. Aurelian, Scholar of Dress and Memory, University of Lysoria
---
I closed the page with a yawn, my eyelids heavy.
"It's alright," Sir John said, his voice gentler than before. "Get some sleep. I shall wake you when we arrive."
"...olay," I murmured, vision blurring. Just before sleep claimed me, I glimpsed Sir John's eyes—not on the sea, but sweeping the passengers with quiet calculation.
---