After leaving the nursery, we decided to part ways for now, as I did not see myself being of much use during the data-collection phase.

  “I will leave you two to it,” I said. “Promise you will share your findings with me.”

  “Of course,” Ja’a replied. “I value your insight.”

  She paused, then added with a grin, “I cannot wait to use whatever we learn to win more bets in the arena.”

  “Or, you know, use it to read the fight like a true freelancer,” said Calr.

  “Yeah, I leave the fighting to the meatheads. That is why we keep Katar around.”

  As they walked away, Calr began pointing out every child within a twenty-meter radius while Ja’a jotted down notes. Those two seemed to be getting along just fine for people who had only interacted today.

  I headed down to the guild. All I wanted was a nap, preferably with a successful attempt at entering my dreamscape. This time without Nina’s help.

  As I stepped into the quiet hallway of my dorm building, I spotted something unusual: a girl in a simple messenger uniform standing directly beside my door. She perked up the moment she saw me approach.

  “Are you Alice?” she asked.

  She looked half Soulit, her hair a soft purple rather than blue.

  I nodded. “I am.”

  “This is for you.” She held out an envelope as carefully as if it were made of glass.

  The paper was thick, the edges pressed with gold foil, and the wax seal glimmered with a stylized winter rose. Definitely expensive. Definitely meant for someone who was not me.

  From Lady Winterbloom was written at the very top.

  I handed the messenger a bronze coin as a tip. She brightened instantly, tucked the coin into her sleeve, and ran down the hall with the practiced speed of someone who ran for a living.

  I entered my room, closed the door, and leaned against it while examining the letter.

  The seal alone felt richer than my boots, and my boots were expensive.

  Whoever “Winterbloom” was, she had money. And apparently, too much spare time, if she was sending fancy letters to a nobody like me.

  Does this have to do with the saint talk? No. I was pretty sure that was mythic commoner gossip. I doubted the nobility would care.

  I sat on the bed and cracked open the seal carefully.

  Lady Sa’a Winterbloom cordially invites San Alice Hecate to the Winterbloom Evening Ball.

  Formal attire is required. A carriage will be provided to you at…

  The letter went on to describe the time and place.

  I read it twice, then a third time, in case I had hallucinated the whole thing.

  A ball.

  A noble ball.

  For upper-class Hano society.

  And I had no idea who Lady Sa’a Winterbloom was.

  The name Winterbloom tickled something in my memory. I pulled out one of the books I had bought from my bag of holding and flipped through the pages until I found it. There it was: Winterbloom, one of the oldest Soulit families in Hano, with deep ties to the shipping trade through Tree Gate. One of those names you were supposed to recognize if you were not, well, me.

  I honestly did not know how to feel…

  My chunibyo side could not wait to go make a fool of myself in a ballroom full of nobles. My realist side knew how ill-prepared I was to face the politics of the city.

  Still… refusing a noble invitation was political suicide. Even I understood that.

  I dropped the invitation onto my bed and flopped backward dramatically. My ceiling stared back, cold and unimpressed.

  I forced myself upright and read the letter again, looking for clues.

  None.

  It did not mention why they wanted me, only that I was invited and that a carriage would arrive at second sunset on the fourth day.

  Today was the second day.

  Two days to prepare. Two days to somehow find something that counted as ball attire. I may have expanded my wardrobe, but everything I owned fell into three categories: travel gear, scholar core, and freelancer armor. Nothing screamed “noble elegance.”

  I sighed and stood up.

  Fine. I will nap later. Existential crisis now.

  Still holding the invitation, I opened my door to go hunt down someone who understood upper-class Hano customs. Someone like Nakera. Or maybe Nada.

  I rubbed my temples. “Okay, Alice. Think. I can choose to dread it, or I can choose to enjoy myself.”

  I turned back to my desk, grabbed a sheet of paper, used one of my remaining Earth pens, and decided to write a response.

  Lady Winterbloom,

  I humbly accept your invitation and look forward to attending.

  Alice Hecate.

  Short, polite, and to the point.

  I folded it, sealed it with the tiny wax pellet I had in my drawer, and stepped back into the hall to look for a courier. But then I stopped myself again before sending it.

  Was I acting impulsively once again?

  I hurried to see Nada to ask for advice, barging into her office like I owned the place.

  “Nada, you need to help me with this,” I said, waving the letter wildly.

  “Ah, you received one too?” Nada asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Too? Does that mean you were also invited?”

  “Of course. I may be half Kindred, but I am also part of the Lore clan.”

  “Right, you are a baroness of Salgoria.”

  If I recall correctly, Nada’s mother was a noble in a midsize kingdom back in the bloodline realm. Her father was a strong, kindred barbarian.

  She opened her own letter and looked at it with a small, satisfied smile.

  “I usually do not bother going to those kinds of events, but this one is different. It was addressed to the new head of reception in the Freelancer Guild, San Nada Lore, rather than Baroness Lore of Salgoria.”

  This Lady Sa’a knew exactly what she was doing. She wrote the letter in a way that even a workaholic like Nada would consider attending her event.

  “Why do you not go to those events more often? Wouldn’t it help you meet Hano’s leadership?” I asked.

  “Pfff,” scoffed Nada. “Hano is a place controlled by strength. Those socialites barely control anything.”

  “Socialites?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know, rich people who do not work for a living. They live off what they own rather than what they do. Estate holders, landlords, and capital investors who get interest on their bank money.”

  “There is at least one ball a week,” she added, “sometimes two. Can you imagine if I went to all of them? Nothing would get done in the guild.”

  “But you are going to this one, right?” I pleaded. “Please, I would like to have a friend at my first ball.”

  “Sure. I will go with you.”

  “That means you will help me find a dress. I have nothing formal to wear.”

  “I should probably get something too,” she admitted with a grimace. “I have worn my old dresses too much, and it would reflect badly on Lady Marina if I look too shabby.”

  “Can we get two dresses made in less than eighty-four hours?”

  “It will probably have to be something premade and refitted rather than a custom design,” said the scribe with a frown.

  “Especially the leather corset,” she added.

  “What do you mean, leather corset?” I frowned.

  “That is the current formal trend in Hano,” Nada explained. “Magical corsets enchanted with wards against attacks, with underlayers of silk and lace, and flared skirts that widen at the hem.”

  “Are those nobles often backstabbed enough to justify that kind of enchantment? I mean, that stuff is expensive. Even powerhouses like Yon and Nakera are not that well-armored.”

  “Yeah, no. They are as safe as you can imagine. Part of why enchantments are so expensive is because of this kind of frivolity. All the competent enchanters are busy working on noble clothes.”

  “Yeah, no. We are not doing that,” I said. “I propose we go as eccentric outsiders. Neither of us is from Hano, after all. We can afford to be daring.”

  I put my hand into my bag of holding and pulled out my phone. Back on earth, when I was dreaming of being isekai’ed, I never considered saving a catalog of dresses. But luckily for me, my phone automatically saved all media sent on WhatsApp.

  I opened my conversation history with my mom and scrolled through her most recent rant about me going to Tunisia, all the way up to her sending pictures of the recent events she had been invited to. You see, my mom is a self-proclaimed philanthropist. That means she goes around to fancy parties, bumps shoulders with local celebrities and politicians, and spends the money she won in the divorce.

  I have no idea how, but she never seems to run out of money, despite being divorced for more than ten years.

  All that to say, I had a ton of pictures of fancy women in fancy dresses that I never asked for. But now? Now I was glad to have them.

  Thanks, Mom, I guess.

  I grabbed a chair and pulled it around the desk so I could sit beside Nada instead of across from her. Nada raised an eyebrow at the invasion of personal space but did not push me away.

  “I may be useless when it comes to fashion, but people wiser than me have already figured it out,” I said, unlocking my phone and scrolling through my mom’s endless gallery of party photos. “Look at this.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The first image I showed her was a woman in a deep emerald gown, the fabric clinging in a way that looked soft and effortless instead of the stiff, semi-Victorian style adopted by Hano’s elite. The second was a gold dress on a Black woman with braided hair, the material draping like molten metal across her shoulders.

  Nada leaned closer, her eyes sharpening with interest. “These are simple cuts,” she observed. “Yet they are very elegant.”

  “Yep,” I nodded. “No corsets. No petticoats. Just fabric doing its thing.”

  “Exactly,” said Nada. “They rely mostly on shape, drape, and fabric flow.”

  I tapped the emerald dress with my finger. “This one uses layered silk or something similar. See how it hugs the waist but falls naturally along the hips?”

  “Right? It looks comfortable,” said Nada.

  “You could breathe in it, or even walk for more than ten seconds,” I nodded.

  “The gold one is striking,” admitted the ink mage.

  “That is why I showed it to you,” I said, nudging her shoulder. “Your skin tone is dark enough to pull off metallics. Especially gold or silver.”

  Nada gave me a suspicious look. “Do not flatter me. I know my complexion.”

  “I am serious,” I insisted, zooming in on the photo. “Look how well it works on her.”

  She studied the image more and more carefully, and her expression softened. “Maybe. For the color. But I prefer the emerald cut better.”

  I took that as a victory.

  “What about this one?” I scrolled to a photo of a woman in a sleek black dress with a slit up the side. It was simple but dramatic, relying entirely on the wearer’s silhouette.

  Nada snorted. “If I wore that, half the guild would faint.”

  “That is the point.” I grinned at the scribe who, despite working at a desk all day, had an incredibly fit body. I guess it is true that Kindred people inherit their parents’ physical potential, since Nada’s father is supposed to be really powerful.

  We cycled through more images, discussing how the dresses relied on clean geometry, movement, and good fabric rather than enchantments or heavy structure. Nada pointed out which materials would be too scarce in Hano, which cuts could be enchanted, and which ideas would survive being adapted by local tailors.

  By the fifth picture, she was fully invested, leaning over my shoulder, her braid brushing my arm as she analyzed seams, necklines, and embellishments like she was preparing for war.

  “You know,” Nada said slowly, “these styles might actually work. They are different enough to stand out without being too scandalous.”

  “Eccentric outsiders,” I reminded her. “We decided this.”

  “You decided this,” she laughed. “But fine. I guess I am following your lead.”

  “And you will help me choose a dress, too? I am helpless when it comes to fashion.”

  “You seem to be doing fine to me.”

  “I guess some of my mother’s rants may have reached my mind despite my best efforts.”

  After an hour of discussion, we both picked a color and cut, so I created a separate file that held only the images relevant to our dress choices. I was surprised that Nada did not ask me about the phone. I am pretty sure I have not used it in front of her before. Still, storing images is not unique. I have seen a few artifacts doing the same in the Soul Emporium, although they were really expensive.

  The next step was to take the designs to a tailor. I suggested going to the tailoring guild and asking for whoever was available, but Nada had a better idea.

  After telling a few people she was done for the day, Nada guided me toward the leadership lounge. The woman I had mentally dubbed “the secretary” sat behind the front desk, blonde hair tied tight, glasses perched high on her nose.

  “Nada! Did you hear? There is a new teleporter in Hano,” the girl said immediately, already deep in gossip. This time, the gossip was about me.

  “People are saying she caught Kichi’s and Garo’s eyes, and she is probably going to marry into the Agame family. Probably to Takur or Raik,” she added in a loud whisper.

  “Hey, no. I am not marrying anybody,” I scowled.

  “Ah, it is you!” she said, turning red. “I am sorry; I was just repeating what I heard. Could you please give me more information about yourself so I can correct everyone who is spreading false rumors about you?” She paused, then added a very hopeful ‘please’.

  I sighed. If rumors were already spreading, it was better to control the narrative.

  “I am Alice Hecate. I am from the Mythic Realm. No, I am not in a relationship, nor am I planning to be anytime soon. I am mostly a scholar rather than a fighter, and no, I am not part of the Holy Temple.”

  The secretary blinked, then smiled brightly. “Oh, we are going to get along, you and me. My name is Janine. If you need to know anything about anyone, let me know.”

  “Right,” I said, slightly overwhelmed. I turned to Nada. “Why are we here again?”

  “Janine, I am looking for a competent seamstress for a rush order who would not be too busy to take us on,” Nada explained.

  “Oh, you are in luck,” Janine said, leaning forward with excitement. “Apparently, Madam Ciram, the best seamstress in the city, fired her best apprentice a couple of months ago. Can you believe it? Her bum of a husband started hinting that she was getting old and that he would not mind a younger second wife, while pointing at the poor apprentice. And Madam Ciram, instead of throwing out her leech of a husband, fired the poor girl.”

  “Did this girl start a business on her own?” asked Nada.

  “Yep. It is not too far from here, on Magma Street, past the sewer entrance. Closer to the slums than the merchant guild.”

  Magma Street was exactly the kind of place you did not visit unless you had a purpose. The street that directly linked the merchant guild and the east gate of Hano, so it was the only street I had visited with more cart traffic than pedestrians. The stone under our boots was cracked from having overloaded carts rolling over it, and it smelled faintly of animal droppings. Most buildings seemed more like warehouses rather than shopfronts, with dark hallways around every corner.

  Nada walked with the same confident stride she used in the guild, completely unbothered by the shady atmosphere. I followed a step behind, pretending I was totally not worried about being mugged for my shoes or run over by a drunk cart driver.

  “That should be it,” Nada said, pointing toward a narrow shop wedged between a hostel-style dormitory and a pottery warehouse.

  A hand-painted sign hung above the door: a needle and a pair of scissors. No name.

  Nada pushed the door open, and a soft chime rang somewhere inside.

  The workshop smelled of fresh dye and clean fabric. Bolts of cloth were arranged in careful piles, but the real chaos was in the center of the room. A young woman floated three pieces of fabric around her like she was conducting an orchestra. The rolls spun, stretched, folded, and twisted in midair, guided by nothing but invisible threads of force.

  The girl herself was petite and freckled, with reddish-brown hair pulled into a messy bun and a pair of pins tucked between her lips to keep her hand free to hold a pair of scissors. When she spotted us, the cloth snapped to stillness and dropped neatly into a basket. She freed her mouth by retrieving the pins before saying.

  “Oh. Customers,” she straightened up. Her eyes flicked to Nada’s freelancer guild badge, then to mine. “Welcome. I am Petra. How can I… help you?”

  Her question hung in the air long enough for the three pieces of fabric to settle completely.

  Nada stepped forward. “We heard you recently opened your own workshop.”

  Petra’s jaw tightened. “I did.”

  “And we need two dresses. A rush order. Can you do it?”

  Petra blinked, then nodded with the focus of someone who had waited her whole life for a challenge. “I can do rush work. It depends on the design.”

  I raised my phone. “We have the designs right here.”

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “It is a dreamer artifact. It lets you see images from the great dream.” At this point, lying about my origin was as easy as breathing.

  I stepped beside her and showed the first image, the emerald gown. Her eyes widened. I scrolled to the gold dress, and she made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

  “These cuts,” she whispered. “They are amazing.”

  “You can do that?” I asked.

  Petra extended a hand. A nearby spool of thread levitated straight into her palm. “I have a Kinetic affinity. I order the cloth, and it obeys me faster than it would the average seamstress.”

  To prove her point, a measuring tape floated out of a drawer and unrolled itself in midair.

  Nada folded her arms. “We need two elegant gowns ready before the Winterbloom ball.”

  Petra froze. Then she very slowly looked from Nada to me, to the dress image, then back to the floating tape.

  “You want me… to design dresses for the Winterbloom ball?” she asked, voice nearly cracking.

  “Well, yes,” I said.

  The smile that spread across her face could have lit up a small city.

  “Show me all the images,” she said breathlessly. “Every angle, every fabric, every drape. I can do this. I want to do this.”

  Her excitement filled the room. The cloth behind her began to twitch in anticipation, rising a few centimeters off the table.

  Nada shot me an amused look.

  I grinned back.

  We had found our seamstress.

  And judging by the sparkle in Petra’s eyes, she was about to make sure we stood out at that ball, whether we wanted to or not.

  Two days later found Nada and me riding in a carriage, wrapped in our splendid new gowns, the lantern light catching every stitch Petra had poured her soul into.

  Nada had chosen a golden off-shoulder maxi dress with warm metallic embroidery that emphasized her well-defined shoulders and the sharp line of her collarbone. The cut gave her an effortless confidence, the kind people associated with nobility even before she opened her mouth. On her, the gold looked less like fabric and more like she had stepped out of a sunlit painting.

  My dress could not have been more different. Midnight blue, with a modest neckline and long sleeves that hugged my arms, the shoulders covered by a soft overlay that moved like water when I shifted. Petra had shaped the fabric to follow my silhouette without exposing too much, creating something elegant without demanding attention.

  We had both added coin belts from Je’e’s shop. Mine used currency from the Pantheon of the Mythic Realm, tiny sun-and-moon stamped discs of silver and silver-gold alloy. Nada, on the other hand, proudly chose coins from the Golden Reef to highlight that she was not the least bit ashamed of her Kindred heritage. And if anyone somehow missed the message, she made sure they would not miss the tiara. Red coral, polished smooth and arranged in delicate branching patterns, sat boldly on her head. It was bright enough to command a room, fierce enough to warn anyone who thought her Kindred heritage was something to whisper about.

  We looked like two very different women heading to the same place: one regal, one mysterious, but both absolutely ready to crash a noble ball.

  The carriage rolled to a stop before the Winterbloom estate, its wheels crunching against polished stone. Lanterns shaped like frozen roses lined the path, casting pale blue light over the sweeping stairs that led up to the great hall. Even from outside, I could hear the murmur of nobles, the clink of glasses, and music drifting through tall windows.

  A butler-looking man in immaculate black attire approached immediately. His posture was too perfect, his boots too polished, and his expression too composed. Definitely trained for this. Without a word, he guided Nada and me through the marble foyer, past glittering tapestries and tall Soulit statues, until we reached the massive double doors of the ballroom.

  Only then did his fa?ade shift. His voice suddenly boomed, magically amplified, as he stepped forward like a herald from a royal court.

  “Announcing San Nada Lore,” he declared, “head of the Freelancer Guild reception. Recently promoted for her outstanding work tracking the signs of cult incursion.”

  A ripple of whispers moved through the ballroom. Nobles craned their necks. Their eyes flicked to Nada’s gold gown, the red coral tiara, the Reef coins at her waist. Some looked impressed. Some looked startled. One woman actually fanned herself as if the boldness of Nada’s golden dress had personally attacked her sensibilities.

  Nada nodded gracefully, as if this level of attention was what she ate for breakfast. I started to see my friend in a different light. She had been born for this kind of life, yet somehow chose the quiet life of a bureaucrat. Not because she did not fit in; no, she was absolutely killing it here. She just wanted to make something of herself on her own terms.

  The herald turned his gaze to me.

  “Announcing San Alice Hecate, new freelancer teleporter. She brought essential information to uncover the cult and assisted in calling reinforcements during the decisive battle of the Pikar Steppe.”

  Now the whispers turned sharp.

  “A teleporter?”

  “That dress cut is new, isn't it?”

  “She was there at Pikar?”

  “Is that the Pantheon coins?”

  Some nobles stared openly at my midnight-blue gown, the flowing sleeves, and the coin belt chiming with a soft metallic sound. A few leaned toward each other, undoubtedly trying to decide whether our style was elegant or offensive. Given noble nature, probably both.

  I stepped forward anyway, spine straight, pretending I had not grown up watching YouTube tutorials on how to walk in heels.

  The ballroom was a sea of moving color. Velvet blues, emerald greens, the same enchanted corset-and-flared-skirt silhouette everywhere. Nada and I stood out instantly, as if someone had drawn graffiti over stained-glass.

  A few minutes later, the music paused as the herald raised his voice again.

  “Announcing San Kerissa Kashak, the rising Phoenix, savior of the missing people abducted during this cult excursion.”

  The room exhaled as one. Some in awe, others in dread.

  Kerissa entered wearing a red and orange Victorian-style gown, layered and blazing with embroidered phoenix motifs. Fire crystals sewn into the hem made the dress flicker like a living flame every time she moved. She walked as if the floor should be grateful to support her.

  Of course, they called her “Savior”. Very subtle.

  The nobles all bowed or curtsied, reverent and eager.

  She basked in it.

  And that was the moment it clicked for me.

  The reason we had been invited.

  The reason the ball existed.

  The reason our actions had been loudly announced to the entire nobility.

  This was not a social gathering.

  This was a celebration of victory against the cult.

  A victory they wanted to parade.

  A victory where they wanted their heroes present… even if one of those heroes was accidentally me.

  I swallowed hard, realizing just how political this night was going to be. And how very unprepared I was for it.

  Then the herald called the next pair, and I instantly understood that whatever attention I had just received was about to become a footnote in tonight’s looming disaster.

  “Announcing Raik Agame and Kan Karda, who both fought against the cult at the Pikar Steppe.”

  The couple entered hand in hand, and the entire ballroom snapped toward them like they were magnetic.

  “Oh… perfect,” I laughed softly under my breath.

  What a shitstorm!