Chapter 21 - looking good, Ryn!

  Ryn woke up on the day of the festival, neither too early nor too late.

  He dragged himself into the washroom, turned on the shower, and let the river-pumped water rush over him, rinsing away the haze of sleep. When he was done, he dried off, slipped into a plain tunic and pants, and reached for his armor… only to stop mid-motion.

  Right. Today wasn’t just any day.

  Today was the day, the festival.

  Which meant the ball.

  Which meant… no armor.

  He stared at his breastplate, frowned, then yawned, scratching absently at his stomach.

  “So… what do I wear, then?”

  It had always been armor or uniform. Clothes beyond that? Not exactly his specialty. With a sigh, he decided he’d just ask Lilia. She’d know what to do.

  Half-dressed and still barefoot, he headed for the door, only to pause as a rapid, nervous knock rattled against it.

  The knocking rattled his door again, quick and uneven. Ryn frowned, dragging a hand through his damp hair before pulling it open.

  A young maid stood in the hall, clutching boxes and a folded bundle of fabric so tightly it looked like she was trying to keep her hands from shaking. The moment his eyes landed on her, she dropped into a quick bow, her braid slipping over her shoulder.

  Ryn’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew her. This was the same maid who’d once let slip Lilia’s whereabouts a week ago.

  “G-Good morning, Sir Ryn. Ms Lilia sent me. She said you’d… need help. With, um, the ball.”

  Ryn blinked at her, then at the bundle. “Help? You mean clothes?”

  She nodded quickly, pressing the fabric forward as if the weight of his attention was too much. “Yes—your formal attire, Sir. Tailored for tonight.”

  “Not that you couldn’t manage yourself, of course, but–Ms Lilia thought—well-” Her words tangled, tripping over themselves until she stopped and swallowed hard, cheeks turning bright red.

  Ryn sighed. Figures Lilia would plan this without telling me.

  He stepped aside, gesturing the familiar maid in.“Well, come in.”

  The maid shuffled in nervously, muttering under her breath.

  The familiar maid pulled out a silver-backed chair and gestured for Ryn to sit.

  From the box she carried, she produced scissors, small combs, and an array of bottles filled with oils and tonics. Her hands trembled faintly as she arranged them, but when she exhaled, the tremor stilled, her focus narrowing.

  She stepped behind him, circling his chair, The scissors clicked once, twice, and then a lock of his black hair drifted to the ground. More followed, each soft fall pulling a strange heaviness into his chest.

  But he didn’t say a word. The maid worked with such quiet intensity, her brows knit in concentration, her breath brushing faintly against his ear as she leaned close. The scissors whispered through his hair. She was so intent on her work, almost reverent, as if shaping something fragile.

  After long minutes of steady snipping, the quiet rhythm broke with a soft pshhht as the maid sprayed something cool across Ryn’s hair. She ruffled it lightly into place, then stepped back as if inspecting her handiwork.

  Before Ryn could comment, she turned to her lacquered box again, pulling out a wide brush dusted with pale powder.The brush swept across his face, tickling his cheekbones and dusting his nose. She dabbed and brushed with fierce concentration

  Ryn looked at the maid as she applied the powders close to his face, Her ears were red now, but she soldiered on, applying the last touches with a trembling kind of precision.

  Finally, after another careful sweep, she stepped back. Her hands settled on her waist, and her eyes lit up with quiet pride.

  “T-There.” Her voice softened. “Sir Ryn… you can go put on your attire now.”

  Ryn stepped out of the washroom dressed in the newly fitted attire. Gray and white draped cleanly over his frame, the lines sharp but not gaudy, his collar was high, reaching almost his chin. A polished shoulder guard rested on his right side, from which a cape fell across his arm, half-veiling his body in a sweep of silvered cloth. His hair had been cut and combed into something almost princely, layered and slightly untamed, shorter at the crown but tapering into longer, feathered ends that brushed his neck and cheekbones, strands falling down his face. It lent him a sharp, wolfish refinement.

  If anyone from the barracks saw him now, they’d be left squinting in disbelief. To most, he would look like someone else entirely. Only those who knew him well would recognize him beneath the polish. And even then… they might have to admit he was quite handsome.

  The maid, however, stared at her work in quiet disbelief, as if she couldn’t quite accept that she had been the one to put him together like this. Her face flushed a deeper shade of red with each passing second until she finally tore her gaze away, realizing Ryn was watching her.

  “S-Sir Ryn,” she stammered, clutching her lacquered box to her chest, “you’re to meet with the Solvaran nobles now. The attendants there… they’ll, um, make sure you’re fully prepared and uh taken care of.”

  Ryn only gave a short nod, shifting awkwardly in the stiff new layers of fabric.

  ***

  Ryn walked through the castle halls, by now he’d grown used to two kinds of stares: first, the ones dripping with disgust, and second, the ones sharpened by fear. But today, a third kind had been added to the list, and it was by far the most common and unbearable.

  Even with the festival in full swing and the ball only hours away, attendants paused in their rush to steal a glance. Hands froze mid-task, whispers trailed after him, and more than a few faces flushed as though the mere sight of him had caught them off guard. A handful even covered their mouths and pretended to be busy, only to sneak another look the moment they thought he wasn’t watching.

  None of them seemed to realize this was the same man they’d gone out of their way to avoid for weeks.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Out of all the stares he’d endured in this palace, Ryn decided this one was the worst. It crawled against his skin, made his collar feel tighter, his cape heavier. The fine clothing didn’t help either,restrictive, stiff, and designed for anything but movement. He felt less like a knight and more like a prize horse being dressed for a parade.

  …At this rate, I’d take the scowls back

  He reached the room the maid had mentioned,the one meant to hold all the nobles until the festival began, to ensure nothing went wrong.

  Ryn didn’t need to be told he was in the right place; the sheer size of the door gave it away. Bigger than the princess’s chambers, polished to a gleam, and flanked on both sides by armored guards.

  The soldiers gave him a single glance, their expressions unreadable. Whatever surprise they might have felt at his appearance didn’t linger, one simply bowed while the other pushed the heavy door open for him.

  Inside, he was met with a vast, lavish chamber, gold-trimmed walls, velvet drapes, couches and tables scattered everywhere like the place was built for lounging rather than waiting.

  Ryn had expected the nobles to be crammed together like livestock, but instead the forty or so men and women, some gray-haired, others the same age as him or younger,were scattered comfortably in little groups. Laughter, hushed gossip, the clink of teacups.

  The moment he stepped in, though, the sound dimmed. Dozens of eyes flicked his way, curious, calculating. A few of the younger women froze mid-motion, staring as though they’d forgotten how to breathe.

  Ryn sighed inwardly. Without a word, he made his way to the farthest seat in the back and dropped into it. He didn’t know anyone here after all.

  However, as he settled into the seat, the room didn’t quiet down again. Instead, a wave of whispers rippled through the younger nobles.

  “How pretty…” one voice breathed.

  “Does anyone know what family he’s from?” another murmured.

  “I’m going to try and talk to him,” came a hushed, determined whisper.

  “You? Please, you can’t even string two words together without tripping over your dress.”

  “I’ll faint in front of him,that always works.”

  “Over my dead body. He looked at me first.”

  Ryn slouched deeper into his chair, muttering under his breath. “I should've just worn the armor.”

  He sat there for a couple of minutes, tugging at his collar, trying and failing to get comfortable in the stiff clothing. Gradually, the whispers began to drift away, the nobles’ attention mercifully shifting elsewhere. Just as Ryn allowed himself to believe he’d finally been forgotten, a sharp voice cut through the chatter.

  “You!”

  Ryn’s head lifted, and he found himself staring at a young red-haired girl, her cheeks flushed as she jabbed a finger straight at him.

  “What’s your name!”

  Ryn blinked, deadpan. Huh?

  All faces in the room turned toward them, the sudden silence hanging like a curtain. Ryn felt the weight of their stares pressing in, and somewhere in the back of his head, the endless lessons on etiquette rang like alarm bells.

  So, with calm, he rose to his feet. He bowed, sharp and precise, his voice carrying with the perfect tone he’d been drilled into.

  “I am Sir Ryn,” he said smoothly. “A member of the Golden Hawks house.”

  A made-up house the king designed for moments like this

  “I haven’t heard of the Golden Hawks,” she sniffed, brow raised. “You must be of lower rank.” Her tone, dismissive.

  A beat, then she smiled, dangerously pleased. “No matter.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I find you very charming… You will become my husband.”

  A ripple of reaction ran through the nobles. A few of the younger men cleared their throats; an older lady clapped a hand to her pearls. Someone actually laughed.

  “Lady Ernes!?”

  “She really went out and did it…”

  Ryn blinked. He’d been practicing noble phrases all week, but none of them covered being proposed to by a stranger. He bowed once, perfectly measured the reflex of a hundred etiquette drills and kept his tone flat.

  “Madam,” he said, each word polite and dry, “that is an offer I cannot accept.”

  Her smile flickered, baffled for the tiniest fraction of a second. “Oh? And why not? Money, rank, looks — take your pick.”

  Shit. Ryn realized too late he’d rejected her without thinking through the fallout. Half the room was waiting for him to trip.

  His jaw tightened, but instead of retreating, he raised his head ever so slightly. Stepping forward, he reached for Lady Ernes’ hand,soft and warm in his calloused grip. He lowered it gently onto his palm, then bowed over it with the kind of practiced elegance that would’ve made his etiquette tutor weep with pride.

  “Because,” Ryn said evenly, voice steady but edged with that quiet seriousness he couldn’t quite shake, “a woman of your beauty and status shouldn't dare to lower herself by marrying a man like me.”

  The words hung in the air.

  Lady Ernes froze. The tips of her ears turned scarlet as her hand trembled in his grip.

  The nobles erupted in a chorus of gasps and delighted murmurs, half scandalized, half enchanted. Some swore they’d just witnessed the most gallant rejection in Solvaran history.

  Ernes stood frozen for a while, her face turning red before she yanked her hand back fast, cheeks flaming. She blinked once, then forced a small, brittle smile. “I—see.”

  She scooted back to her circle of friends as if she’d simply remembered an urgent appointment.

  Around her, the other nobles hummed approval like a small, approving storm. A dozen whispered declarations, scandalized, delighted, utterly charmed.

  Ryn wanted to disappear. Preferably under the nearest cushion, or better yet, into the floor. Instead, he stood very still. If anyone offered to hand him a shovel, he would have accepted it without question.

  He sat back down and folded his hands neatly in his lap, staring straight ahead while his soul quietly withered.

  ***

  An hour crawled by. Outside the chamber, he could hear the shuffle of servants and staff, their hurried footsteps echoing through the halls as the festival preparations reached their peak. Anyone passing through the palace could tell the whole city was straining toward this one moment.

  Ryn, meanwhile, sat wedged between velvet couches and silk-draped nobles, subject to a hundred curious glances and whispers that hadn’t died down since he entered. His new clothes clung tight at the shoulders, pinched at the waist.

  He exhaled slowly, his face remaining impassive.

  Ryn held his usual pose, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. Then a gruff voice cut through the haze of whispers.

  “Sir Ryn.”

  He glanced up. A guard stood at the door, posture rigid. “Someone is requesting for you outside.”

  Ryn rose at once. Someone? he thought.

  As he crossed the chamber, every step echoing against marble, he could feel the noble girls’ eyes trailing him. He ignored them, but their stares clung to him until he was finally past the door.

  The door shut behind him, muffling the hum of nobles inside. He scanned the hall, expecting another guard, maybe a steward.

  Instead, it was Lilia.

  She stood waiting, hands folded neatly in front of her, but the moment her eyes landed on him, they widened, sparkling with something caught between disbelief and delight. For half a breath, she forgot herself, staring at the brushed hair, the draped cape, the sharp lines of his attire.

  “…Ryn?” she asked, as if testing whether it was really him.

  Ryn frowned slightly, tugging at his collar. “What?”

  Lilia’s lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “N-nothing. Just… you cleaned up better than I thought you would.”

  “You look different… in a good way”

  Ryn muttered under his breath, something about the clothes being too tight, but she didn’t seem to hear him.

  Instead, her expression brightened suddenly, her voice quick and eager:

  “Let’s go get lunch!”