As I walked, I tried to push the woman’s face from my mind. The way her eyes had lit up when she thought she knew me. The way that light had died the moment she realised I wasn’t who she expected. Shock first. Then certainty. That look clung to me, heavy and wrong, long after I’d left the tavern.

  I shook my head and forced my focus forward. Crowds swallowed me as I worked my way back toward the colder streets, the ones that watched instead of welcomed. The noise thinned. The air lost its warmth.

  I needed somewhere quiet.

  It took longer than I liked. Too many eyes. Too much movement. Eventually I spotted a cart abandoned near the edge of the road, its canvas sagging and its wheels half sunk into the dirt. I waited, counting breaths, until I was sure.

  Then I changed.

  The shift rippled through me, familiar now.

  When I stepped out again, Nick walked in my place.

  I smiled and headed straight for the tailor, ignoring the looks my clothes earned me before I crossed the threshold.

  “Hello?” I called.

  The shop was quiet.

  A dull thud came from the back, followed by a muffled curse. A moment later, the tailor appeared, wheeling a mannequin with one hand while sucking on his thumb, eyes bright despite the injury.

  He stopped in front of me and stepped aside with a flourish.

  I let out a low whistle.

  “I just spun a fresh batch of spider silk,” he said, pride warming his voice. “A few adjustments here and there, Presentable enough for any banquet. Strong enough to survive a battlefield.”

  A black coat hung over the frame, cut sharp and deliberate, layered over a tailored suit that looked suited not just for a noble, but a battle mage. Practical lines hidden beneath elegance.

  “I took the liberty of attaching a fresh expandable rune pocket into the breast pocket,” he went on, lifting the left side of the coat. “It comes out cleanly of course. Like any coin purse.”

  A leather pouch rested there, no bigger than my hand, sealed with a newly etched rune. Clean. Precise.

  Then he turned the mannequin slightly, drawing my eye to a new piece of metal set into the front of the coat.

  “And this,” he said, smiling wider, “is where things get interesting.”

  “I’ve inlaid the front so the buckles and buttons can carry runes,” he said, fingers already moving as he indicated the fastenings. He tapped one, then another. “They can be linked, but they won’t interfere with each other.”

  “Wouldn’t want the whole thing coming apart halfway through a toast,” he added, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

  A smile tugged at my mouth. “You went well beyond...”

  He grinned back, pleased. “Last time you were here, you mentioned an interest in a suit that could do more than look impressive.”

  I gave a nod and kept my face smooth. Inside, my pulse was doing something far less dignified.

  He stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, do you want to supply your own runes, or would you like me to stitch in a few of mine? The cost would be…”

  I raised a hand. “What would you recommend?”

  His eyes lit. He studied the coat again, thinking. “Four buttons,” he said slowly. “Those could take a self-cleaning rune. Useful. A colour modifier, perhaps.” He paused and looked at me properly. “You don’t plan on fighting in this, do you?”

  I hesitated. “Probably not. But.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” he said at once. “Then we add a hardening rune, just in case of sharp disagreements.” He smiled at his own joke. “And a force redistribution rune. That one saves lives.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Good.” He clapped his hands once, decision made, then wheeled the mannequin toward the changing rooms. “Go on. I’ll mark the fit while you get changed.”

  He gestured me toward the curtain, already reaching for chalk as if the outcome had never been in doubt.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I pulled the clothes on piece by piece. Most of it settled easily, the fabric light but reassuring against my skin. Some parts fit almost too well, while others pinched or hung just a fraction off, close enough to notice, wrong enough to itch at my awareness.

  When I stepped out with my blade on my new belt, the tailor was already moving.

  He made a small sound in his throat and waved a finger, then closed the distance. From his sleeve he produced a slender silver needle, its surface etched with a pin-sized rune that glowed faint blue. He pressed it to the fabric, threading and tugging with quick, precise motions. Wherever the needle passed, the cloth shifted. Seams tightened. Lines straightened. The suit adjusted itself in real time, responding like it was alive.

  A few breaths later, he stepped back.

  The pressure vanished. The weight settled evenly across my shoulders and hips. The coat hugged without binding, moved when I did, stopped when I did. Like it had been waiting for me.

  “Woah,” I breathed. I couldn’t stop the smile. “Perfect.”

  The tailor’s chest lifted just a little at that. Pride, unhidden.

  The bell above the door rang.

  I turned as someone new stepped inside. The tailor stiffened beside me, his satisfaction evaporating.

  “Master Vortigern,” he said, bowing low.

  He looked my age. Jet-black hair cut sharp. Pale skin that never saw sun by choice. His suit was as fine as mine, maybe finer, tailored to announce status without effort. His gaze slid to me and stuck.

  A sneer curled his mouth.

  “Oh, Nicky boy,” he said lightly. “I thought I spotted you through the window.” His eyes dragged over my coat. “Fancy meeting you here. In the city. Not out on your hunt.”

  I said nothing.

  His sneer widened. “What. Nothing to say?”

  He turned away from me and wandered deeper into the shop, fingers trailing along racks of fine cloth as if he owned them. “You usually have plenty to say. Excuses, mostly. Blaming guards for your failures. Getting Daddy to tidy up your mistakes.”

  I didn’t answer.

  The tailor cleared his throat, the sound thin and strained. “Master, I am with another customer.”

  He glanced back at him. “I’m only browsing.” His eyes slid to me again. The look made my skin prickle.

  He lifted a wide-brimmed hat from the display, weighed it in his hands, then let it fall back onto the rack as if it had insulted him. The fabric sagged where it landed. The message was clear.

  The tailor drew a breath, lips parting, then thought better of it. The silver needle trembled between his fingers, the tiny blue rune along its length flaring and dimming as his grip tightened. His eyes flicked to me, asking a question he didn’t dare speak.

  Vortigern saw the look.

  That decided it.

  He crossed the room without haste, yet the space vanished between one step and the next. His hand about to close around my right before I could shift my weight.

  “Grab my hilt,” the sword said inside my head.

  I moved on instinct. My left hand found the hilt just before his fingers locked fully in place. From the outside it looked harmless. A greeting. A firm shake between acquaintances.

  He laughed.

  His grip tightened and he pulled me in, close enough that I felt the heat of his breath at my ear. “You try running off again… Running your mouth?” Pressure flared along my knuckles, sharp enough to bite. “Just remember caddy can’t save you from the trials.”

  Cold sweat slid down my spine.

  “You have no idea what’s coming,” he murmured. “Who knows. Maybe you’ll even live.”

  He let go with a shrug and stepped back, still smiling as he turned and strolled out of the shop.

  Only then did I see them through the window. Guards. At least six. Waiting on their young master.

  The bell chimed as the door closed behind him.

  The tailor exhaled shakily. “Nasty little shit.”

  I looked at him.

  Colour crept into his cheeks. “Ah. I mean.” He straightened, forcing steadiness back into his hands. “Shall we finalise the fitting?”

  I smiled at him, though my attention drifted as the shop settled back into its quiet rhythm. The world felt less simple than it had an hour ago. Layers pressing down on layers. Power stacked neatly on power. Even bullies had someone above them, ready to lean in and remind them of their place.

  That didn’t excuse how Nick had treated me. Not even a little.

  I looked down at the suit. The fabric sat clean and sure against my skin, a sharp contrast to years of being shoved aside and spoken over. This wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. My mouth curved despite myself.

  The tailor made a few final adjustments, fingers quick and practiced. Buttons clicked softly as the runes settled. When he was done, he stepped back and gave a satisfied nod.

  He gestured toward the pile of clothes I’d shed earlier. “What would you like done with those? Burn them?”

  I shook my head. “No. I should return them to the kid I borrowed them from.”

  The lie came easily. I wasn’t about to walk home dressed like this.

  He studied the clothes once more and sighed. “At least let me clean them.”

  Before I could protest, he turned and tossed them into a wide stone tub. The runes carved along its rim flared briefly. Water surged, spun, then stilled. In the space of a breath, the clothes came out clean, dry, and warm to the touch.

  He folded them neatly and slid them into a paper bag, then handed it to me. “Put them in your rune pocket for now.”

  I hesitated. The pocket sewn into my coat was barely large enough for a hand. Still, I opened it and pushed the bag inside.

  My eyes widened.

  The package slipped in without resistance. No bulge. No weight. When I let go, the coat settled back into place like nothing had ever been there.

  I pressed a hand to my chest. Empty. Smooth. Nothing shifted beneath the fabric.

  “Good,” the tailor said, already turning away. “Take care of it. And come straight back if it takes any damage.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “On the off chance that happens.”

  “One last thing,” I said. “He was right.”

  He paused and looked at me, puzzled.

  “Vortigern, I mean… I’m not supposed to be back in the city,” I went on. “I’m still technically on my hunt.”

  Understanding settled in. “Then you’d like me to bill you at a later date?”

  I nodded. “And no mention of how I walked in today. Not even to me.”

  His smile widened. “Mum’s the word.”

  “And give yourself a proper tip.”

  He inclined his head, already noting everything down with careful strokes, assuring me the bill would wait for a proper family order. I thanked him and stepped outside.

  The door closed behind me, and the street opened up ahead. I paused for a breath, pulse light and quick, a grin tugging at my mouth. It felt like waking from a vivid dream with the proof still warm against my skin.

  Now I looked the part.

  And with a coat with a magic pocket, it was time to go shopping.