Book II: Chapter 8 – The Measure of a Master

The Winterglass Wardrobe.

The store is warm and inviting in every way the outside is not.

We stumble into the foyer shivering and snow-covered, frost melting from frozen hair, pale skin, and frosted eyelashes. The door closes behind us, but even through the polished wood, I can still hear the wind howl and whistle through the cracks like something hungry has been left outside.

The man behind the counter looks up.

Then he begins moving toward us with the slow, practiced care of someone triaging us for frostbite, hypothermia, and stupidity.

He is tall and narrow, with the pale blue-tinged skin of a winter elf and the severe grace of a man whose skill with measuring tape, cloth, and needlework is legendary. Rich layers of dark wool, silver clasps, and white fur sit on him with effortless precision. 

His eyes pass over Kit’s spectral armor, my insufficient travel clothes, and Enora’s black dress.

Especially Enora’s black dress.

Then he smiles with the warmth of a tailor-savior who has just found three very profitable emergencies.

“You poor souls,” the Outfitter says. “I can save you.”

The terrible thing is, he sounds entirely honest.

“Not cheaply. But for the right amount of coin, you will never again feel the bite of wind on your skin, nor the chill of death trying to settle into your bones.”

I believe him immediately on all three accounts.

The Outfitter approaches Enora first, which is fair, because she is clearly the most in need of saving.

“My lady,” he says gently, “if I may?”

Enora blinks up at him from beneath the brim of her hat, still shivering hard enough that dignity is losing the battle by inches.

“I would be… very… grateful,” she manages, though the words come out in tiny broken pieces between chattering teeth.

She nods, clutching every part of her that is exposed.

The Outfitter lifts the amulet at his throat and murmurs a soft prayer. Warmth rolls outward from it in visible waves, washing over Enora from head to toe. Frost vanishes from the brim of her hat. Meltwater steams from the folds of her dress. The damp fabric dries almost instantly, and the color begins returning to her cheeks.

Enora exhales so softly it is almost a sound of worship.

“Oh,” she whispers.

I want to feel that warmth through the bond.

Of course, I can’t.

Still, I can see the wonder and thankfulness in Enora’s eyes, and that is enough for me.

Kit, shielded from the worst of the wind by her spectral armor, lets the ghostly shell fade and steps forward next, looking nearly as in need as Enora had been. “I am not admitting the weather won,” she says, though her flattened ears and trembling tail betray her. 

The Outfitter’s smile does not falter. “Of course, young lady. The house of Winterglass has warmth enough for all.”

“Good,” Kit mutters, wrapping her arms around herself. “Because I am fairly sure my ears are stuck to my head.”

He lifts the amulet again and murmurs another soft prayer. Heat rolls over Kit in gentle waves, melting frost from her ears, her hair, her cloak, and the damp edges of her clothes until steam curls faintly around her. Her shoulders lower by inches.

“Mmm,” Kit breathes, eyes half closing despite herself. “Fine. The weather won a little.”

That one, I feel. Kit’s relief rolls through the bond with enough warmth to make me immediately envious and deeply aware of how badly I need that amulet pointed at me.

Only then does the Outfitter’s gaze turn toward me. “Whether you remain warm when you leave this sanctuary,” he says, “is entirely up to you.”

Still shivering, I watch him pour warmth over Kit and Enora like a man dispensing mercy by appointment. I understand him clearly. It is entirely up to the weight of my purse.

My teeth chatter as I answer. “We have coin, and we need cold-weather gear.”

Only after that admission does the Outfitter turn his warming amulet toward me. “I am so glad I can be of service.”

Warmth rolls through me, and I exhale a cloud of frosted breath as the cold finally gives way.

Kit recovers first, stoking the Outfitter’s interest in us even further. “We have two more we’ll be shopping for as well,” she adds graciously. “A Callin girl and a wolfkin.”

The Outfitter’s hospitality only warms further. “Excellent. Then with whom shall we begin?”

Both Enora and Kit volunteer at once.

“Something warm,” Enora says, still clutching her hat, “and enchanted against the wind.” 

“Covering,” Kit says, “but still light enough to move in… and cute.” 

Apparently, the discovery back in the marketplace has not derailed that requirement.

The Outfitter spreads his arms with magnificent confidence. “We can do all of that, and more.”

Then he ushers both women toward a three-paneled mirror, a raised fitting pedestal, and a decanter of warm wine.

Realization quickly settles over me that this is going to become an all-day event.

Somehow, I cannot bring myself to mind.

Kit’s excitement is already washing away the anger from only minutes earlier, brightening through the bond in little flashes of warmth, curiosity, and sharp opinions about fabric. Enora, meanwhile, has found someone who can talk enchantment, tailoring, and weatherproofing in the same breath, and the twinkle it brings to her eye is worth the price of admission all by itself.

Kit is first up on the pedestal while Enora pours warm wine for both of them.

The Outfitter begins measuring her with brisk, professional precision, circling with ribbon, chalk, and murmured comments about movement, layering, and the tragic foolishness of exposed skin in Thronstadt. Kit enjoys the attention with theatrical approval right up until the measuring ribbon settles around her bust. 

The Outfitter reads the measurement aloud in the same tone he might use to announce a royal decree.

Kit’s ears twitch.

Enora, who is very quietly pouring wine nearby, looks down at herself, then back up at Kit on the pedestal.

Her smirk is tiny and …devastating.

Kit feels it too, because envy flickers through the bond with enough sharp little teeth that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

Enora offers Kit the wine and the view of her ample cleavage with the solemn mercy of a woman who knows there is no competition there. 

I find a chair nearby and am just about to sit when a man appears beside me.

His voice is rich, smooth, and thick with appreciation.

“What an amazing bonded companion you have there.”

My gaze snaps toward him.

He is human, dressed in the kind of polished winter finery that looks purchased and chosen with intricate care. Dark wool. Silver trim. Expensive gloves. Boots magically enchanted to remain spotless.

His eyes, however, are not on me.

They are still on Kit.

Beside him stands an impossibly attractive goblin woman, barely over three feet tall and less than half my height, yet somehow equal in presence. She is bright in a way that does not seem entirely possible, dressed in fashionable layers of warmth over a gleaming breastplate. Green skin. Sharp smile. Clever golden eyes.

Calling her attractive feels insufficient.

She looks curated.

I stand again before I realize I have done it.

Before I can say something that would turn this immediately combative, he offers his hand in a disarming gesture. 

“Good morning,” he says. “Allow me to introduce myself.” 

Something in the air changes. 

“My name is Lord Davion Thalorian.” 

Then he turns with a little flourish toward the goblin woman at his side.

“And this is my lovely companion of the day, Glitzy.”

I am taken aback for a moment by the two of them.

Lord Davion Thalorian stands there with feathered blond hair, an easy smile, and blue eyes that seem almost offensively free of malice. His outstretched hand is welcoming, polished, and irritatingly difficult to stay furious at.

Still, I don’t take it.

“I’m Vincent Locke,” I say, “and I would appreciate an explanation.”

His offered hand turns palm-up, not quite surrendering, but certainly defending. Then he gestures lightly in Kit’s direction.

“I mean no offense, of course,” Davion says. “I was only commenting that your companion is extraordinary.”

Glitzy’s golden eyes flick toward him.

For the briefest moment, she looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t.

His explanation does not make things better.

Davion seems to notice the continued confusion on my face and the growing irritation behind it. With effortless confidence, he invites himself into the chair beside the one I had been about to take. Glitzy remains standing nearby, bright and watchful, her golden eyes moving between us.

Then Davion gestures toward my chair as though he is offering me something that had not already been mine.

“Please, Master Locke,” he says. “Will you sit with me for a moment?”

Somehow, his tone makes the request difficult to refuse without looking unreasonable.

Which is irritating. Very irritating.

I sit anyway.

Davion’s eyes return to Kit, who is still on the pedestal in a modest state of dress, though not nearly modest enough for my comfort with his attention on her.

He leans toward me conspiratorially and lowers his voice.

“You’re a Harem-Master, Vincent Locke.”

My fingers tighten against the arm of the chair.

Davion’s smile does not move.

“And I am guessing she is your favorite.”

My head snaps toward him, but he does not meet my gaze. Not yet. His attention remains fixed on Kit as the Outfitter works, as if he is studying the answer more than asking the question.

“You’re a Harem-Master,” he says again.

Only then does he turn to face me.

His confidence meets my glare without flinching.

“Just like me.”

The admission strikes me like a hammer against a bell.

I have never met another Harem-Master.

Across the room, Kit is still being measured, but she notices my suspicion rising through the bond. She does not move to interrupt. She does not need to.

“Stay sharp,” I send. 

Her eyes flick once toward me. No explanation needed.

A moment later, Kit’s attention sharpens to everything in the room.

My eyes narrow on Davion.

Before I can answer, I catch the movement of Glitzy’s hand drifting toward the long, gold-inlaid glaive stored across her back.

Davion notices too.

“Settle yourself, Master Locke,” he says, voice still smooth. “It is always strange the first time two Masters meet. A sweet tension of sorts. Territorial, perhaps… protective?”

My voice drops low.

“How do you know my subclass, and what do you want?”

Davion’s confidence does not sharpen. If anything, it relaxes, which somehow makes him more irritating.

He gestures lightly to the room around us, then toward Kit, who is now watching him with sharpened interest, and the Outfitter, who has become very professional about pretending not to listen.

“Only to get the measure of you, Vincent.”

A small smile follows.

“May I call you Vincent? Master Locke makes the whole thing confusing if we both insist on calling each other…”

He lets the sentence drift away, then gestures dismissively, as though clearing smoke from the air.

“Please. Call me Davion.”

I do not. “Get to your purpose, Lord Thalorian,” I say. “How did you know?”

Davion turns to Glitzy as though I have not just pressed a blade against the conversation.

“My dear, would you please be so kind as to fetch two cups of wine for Master Locke and myself?”

Glitzy’s hand falls away from the glaive.

Then, with elegance that seems almost impossible from someone barely over three feet tall and entirely green, she gives a demure bow.

“Of course, Master.”

Kit’s eyes follow the goblin sharply as Glitzy approaches, her intensity finally giving Enora the hint that something is wrong.

With a charming smile, Glitzy turns to Enora and gestures toward the decanter.

“May I?”

Enora blinks, then looks from Glitzy to Kit, then to me.

The twinkle in her eye vanishes beneath the brim of her hat.

Still, she shares the decanter.

Glitzy pours two fresh glasses with delicate precision, bright smile never slipping, while the room continues pretending this is all still about clothing.

“Master Locke,” Davion says, “I can see the bond between you and that young lady on the pedestal as clearly as you can feel it.”

My eyes flick toward Kit.

She has gone very still.

Davion does not stop there.

“I can also see compatibility potential between you and that lovely woman sitting beside her.”

My gaze shifts before I can stop it, following his toward Enora.

She sits near Kit with her wine held carefully in both hands, half-hidden beneath the brim of her hat, unaware that the conversation has just placed her under a different kind of scrutiny.

“It is quite high,” Davion says. “She must have caught your eye right away.”

My jaw tightens.

“What are you?”

Davion’s smile turns faintly pleased, as though I have finally asked the proper question.

“A Broker,” he says. “A Harem-Master Broker, to be specific. I can see and measure compatibility. Potential. Bond strength. Temperament. Purpose.”

He takes the wine from Glitzy without looking away from me.

“It allows me to locate, purchase, procure, and place the right companion with the right Master for the right purpose.”

Every word after purchase lands worse than the one before it.

Davion notices. His insight into me is remarkable. 

He senses my disgust rising almost the moment it forms. Not just suspicion. Disgust. The kind that comes with teeth.

Then his next words disarm me so completely that, for a moment, my head spins.

“Master Locke,” he says softly, “I have met a few others of our subclass variety, and I have found they can usually be classified into two categories that I cannot measure.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the windows and the market beyond.

“Those who purchase slaves from the man at the edge of the market.”

We both know the man in question.

“And those who rescue them from him.”

My grip tightens around the wineglass before I remember I am holding it.

Rescue is the word I’ve used for it.

Davion’s smile fades into something much harder to dismiss.

“I have personally rescued dozens of girls.”

Glitzy stands close again, golden eyes bright and ready. Her hand is no longer on the glaive, but it does not need to be. Meanwhile, my casting hand is occupied with a cup of warm wine I do not remember accepting.

Davion notices that too.

Then he leans in just enough to make the question private.

“Master Locke,” he asks, “which category do you find yourself in?”

My mouth opens with a response.

Davion, ever the diplomat, does not wait for it.

“Master Locke,” he says, “I peg you for the latter. Like myself. Otherwise, we would not be having this quiet conversation in my favorite adventuring fashion foray.”

He lifts his wine slightly, as if toasting the absurdity of the setting.

“And Glitzy would not have taken her hand off her glaive.”

I am not sure where this is going, but Kit is a moment away from drawing blades, and I can see Enora has already palmed the Crystal Skull of the Spectral Choir into her lap.

Three against two seems in my favor.

Except Davion must know that.

He must also know that fighting inside the city limits is likely to be enforced just as strictly here as it was in Marrowpine. Guards would be through the door in moments, and that assumes the Outfitter himself does not have some very expensive method for keeping violence out of his favorite room.

My mind plots exits. Tactics. Angles. Distances. Who moves first. Who needs protecting.

But curiosity wins.

I look Davion in the eye. “I’ve rescued three.”

Davion’s smile turns mirthful and relieved.

“Three?” he asks. “That’s it? I must have nearly three dozen girls I’ve rescued.”

I stare at him, trying to make the math work and failing.

“You can only have five people in a party,” I say. “How would you even…”

Davion waves his hand dismissively, as though the tension in the room has finally been dealt with and we are all civilized men discussing weather, wine, and hunting licenses.

“Yes, five in an adventuring party,” he says. “But you can have as many bonded companions as you like. You simply rotate them in and out of the active party as best suits the hunting ground. Take the Frost Warrens, for instance…”

This time, I cut him off.

“You swap out companions like gear?”

Davion’s expression changes.

“Careful, Master Locke,” he says, his voice still smooth, though the warmth has thinned. “We are having a pleasant conversation.”

His gaze holds mine fiercely.

“I take the well-being of my girls very seriously.”

Davion’s head turns toward Glitzy ever so slightly.

“Be ready,” he sends. “He may have lied and is trying to play us.” 

“I’m not a liar!” I snap.

The words are out of my mouth before I even realize what has happened.

Davion goes still.

Glitzy does too.

Then, in perfect shocked unison, they both stare at me.

“You can hear us?”