"Well, my lady… shall we continue where we left off?" Jean said nervously, his voice cracking as he rubbed his sweaty palms on his apron.
"After that… lovely exchange earlier," he added, darting a side glance at Erika before nearly choking on his own words.
"I thought perhaps it's time we focus on… more important matters. Namely—the masterpiece I've prepared for you!"
Jean swept his arms with dramatic flair, nearly hitting Sylvester in the chin with his sleeve.
"Behold!"
He rushed toward the center of the workshop, gripping the edge of a heavy cloth that covered a tall mannequin.
Erika blinked, still frozen near the registry desk, her heart hammering from Lady Green's bow a moments ago. Her mind was a storm of confusion, yet Jean's ridiculous performance was so over-the-top she almost laughed.
Jean tugged the cloth away with a flourish, revealing the creation beneath.
The lantern light spilled across it—an elegant ensemble unlike anything seen in the noble courts. A fitted tunic with a high collar and delicate embroidery of curling vines ran down the sleeves, silver thread catching the glow. Flowing fabric layered at the hips gave the illusion of a dress, but beneath it lay sleek, tailored trousers—cut to fit a woman's form, both graceful and commanding. It wasn't too plain, nor overly extravagant; it carried balance, purpose, and quiet dignity.
Lady Green's eyes narrowed, not in displeasure but in sharp, careful study. She circled the mannequin once, fingertips brushing lightly along the embroidered sleeve.
"A design for women… with pants," she murmured, her tone unreadable. "Bold."
Jean puffed up like a rooster. "Not just bold, my lady—revolutionary! A statement! A defiance of outdated silhouettes!" He slapped his chest dramatically.
"Blood, sweat, tears, and no less than twenty ruined fabrics birthed this creation!"
"...Did you just say 'tears'?" Sylvester muttered dryly, arms crossed.
"No wonder it looks stitched with desperation."
Jean spun on him, scandalized.
"Desperation!? You insult genius! Do you know how many needles snapped in pursuit of this vision? How many hoops were baptized in my blood for the sake of our dear lady's glory?!"
Erika covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. She shouldn't have, but Sylvester's deadpan jab was just too perfectly timed.
Lady Green ignored their bickering, instead turning her gaze on Erika.
"And what do you think?" she asked.
Erika froze, her blood running cold. "M-Me?"
"Yes," Lady Green said simply, her copper hair catching the workshop light.
"You seem honest enough. Tell me—does this design carry dignity, or does it cheapen it?"
Erika's throat went dry. Her eyes flicked to Jean, whose expression screamed please don't ruin this for me. Her gut twisted, and words stumbled out before she could stop them.
"It's… it's elegant," she blurted, hands fidgeting behind her back. "Not too flashy, but… not plain either. It looks like something a woman could wear without feeling… small."
A silence followed. Jean looked like he'd just swallowed his own heart. Erika wanted to curl up and vanish.
But then—Lady Green's lips curved in the faintest smile.
"I see. Refreshing words."
Jean nearly collapsed with relief, clutching the broomstick like it was a cane holding him upright.
Sylvester snorted. "So it's official then. Stitched with tears, approved by panic."
"Silence, you fashionless brute!" Jean barked, his pride reignited. "You wouldn't know vision if it smacked you in the face with a silk scarf!"
Lady Green straightened fully now, her eyes lingering on the garment. "Have it ready for the Eternal Flame Festival. It will be… fitting for the occasion."
At that, Erika's brows knit.
The festival? So this was more than just some fancy commission. She plans to wear it there?
Her chest tightened again, though this time not from panic—just bewilderment.
Strange. With her status, she could debut it anywhere. So why the festival?
Her thoughts spun. The Eternal Flame Festival. That's not just some ball or passing event—it's the festival of the empire. Months from now, the whole capital will be lit up, drowning in parades, prayers, and celebrations. All of it in the name of victory and unity.
And at the center of it all—Catalina Duavan. The knight who turned Albanus from a small kingdom into an empire it is today. They say the festival was named after her, born from her deeds, her unyielding light and the fire she carried that burned down the northern invaders. Honestly, it's basically her holiday.
As for me… I've never really been part of it. Every year, when the festival came around, I stayed home. Better to bury myself in books than to walk the streets and feel the eyes on me—those stares that linger too long.
I might be a northerner by blood, but I was born here in the south. I've never even stepped foot in my homeland people insist on scowling at me for. those whispers sharp enough to cut.
A northerner. That's what they see when they look at me. Meanwhile, Jean would always come back later, buzzing with stories and laughter from the crowds.
…But if Lady Green's going, then surely, there's a fair chance the lady I serve will be there too. Nobles don't miss spectacles like that. And if she does go… then I'll be there as well.
I'm actually curious to see it. Since when do I look forward to festivals?
She sighed quietly, resigned, while Jean was already busy fluffing the fabric of his creation like a proud father.
Jean's eyes lit up, clasping his hands together.
"Oh, the Eternal Flame Festival! What a wondrous day for such a creation to be unveiled. I can already imagine it—my Lady Green, dazzling beneath the firelight, outshining even the flames themselves!"
Lady Green blinked, caught off guard.
"Ah—no, not for me," she said quickly, composing herself with a small smile. "This dress is for someone else. A…very important person."
"Oh, I see… so it's meant for someone else." Jean smirked faintly, trying to mask his curiosity. "Now I'm dying to know—who's going to be the one dazzling in this at the Eternal Flame Festival?"
Lady Green's lips curved into a polite smile, though her eyes gave nothing away. "That, I cannot say. Their identity isn't something I can easily disclose."
Jean's enthusiasm faltered for a beat, his smile shrinking. "Ah… I see. Nobles and their secrets." He sighed, then quickly recovered, pressing a hand to his chest with a flourish. "Still, I am honored that my work shall adorn such a figure."
Lady Green's lips curved faintly.
"Indeed. And since the festival is still months away… would it be too much to ask for five variations of this design? Different colors, subtle changes in pattern. The lady in question must have her choice."
Jean managed a smile, though it was tighter than a corset lace.
"Five… varieties, you say?" his eyes twitching.
Five new designs? Each more complicated than the last? He could already see himself drowning in scraps of fabric, buried alive under embroidery hoops, surviving on thread and desperation. He knew it would mean weeks of sleepless nights and endless revisions.
Lady Green tilted her head ever so slightly, her sharp eyes not missing the brief flicker of dread that crossed Jean's face at her request. His smile wavered—polite, but strained—and that was enough for her to act.
She reached gracefully into her satchel, fingers brushing against leather before producing another pouch. With a soft thud, she set it on the counter, the faint chime of coins spilling into the air.
"For the trouble," she said calmly, her tone carrying a rare softness. "I trust this will be… enough."
Jean's despair evaporated in an instant. His eyes locked onto the pouch as though it were a holy relic, his posture straightening, his spirit reborn.
"My lady!" he cried, hands clasped dramatically over his chest before he scooped the bag up like a lifeline.
"Enough? This is salvation itself! You honor me beyond words! Truly, the heavens themselves could not have bestowed a brighter blessing this day!"
Erika watched in silence, lips twitching. Wow. Instant revival. Forget medicine—just throw gold at him.
Lady Green and Sylvester soon gathered their things, their poise unbroken even as Jean scrambled to bow them out the door. He held it open with exaggerated courtesy, practically glowing at the thought of his gold pouch jingling on the counter.
"Come again, my lady,! May the heavens drape your path in silk!" he called out dramatically, as they exited.
The shop grew quiet once the door clicked shut, the lanternlight settling into a softer glow. Jean was already humming to himself, clutching the pouch like it was his dearest child.
Erika, however, lingered where she stood. Her gaze drifted back to the mannequin—the bold ensemble standing tall in the center of the workshop. The silver-threaded vines shimmered faintly, trousers sharp and commanding beneath the flowing fabric.
Her lips parted as she exhaled softly.
"Bold, indeed," Erika whispered, a faint smile tugging her lips.
"Whoever wears this… they'll be unforgettable.