Book II: Chapter 9 – Winterglass and Whispers

Davion does not wait for me to answer the first question. 

Whatever mask he has been wearing slips a fraction, and for the first time since he sat down beside me, the polished lord looks less like a man arranging a conversation and more like one shocked that he’s having one.

His eyes sharpen on mine.

“What is your subclass evolution, Master Locke?”

The words are clear, direct, and impossibly intimate.

They come through the bond.

Not my bond.

His. 

It is different. I can't feel him the way I feel Kit. There is no warmth, no pulse of emotion, no familiar shape waiting on the other side of the thread.

But I can hear him.

Clearly.

For one long second, I can only stare at him while questions crowd the edge of my thoughts.

I shove them down.

If I can hear him, I have no idea what he can hear from me.

Kit’s alarm spikes through me from the fitting pedestal, sharp enough to cut. Enora shifts beside her, quiet and wary, one hand closing around the Crystal Skull of the Spectral Choir in her lap. Glitzy’s golden eyes narrow, all the charm draining out of her expression without taking any of the beauty with it.

My own face must change too, because Davion sees something there. His curiosity tightens into something brighter. Something hungrier.

I answer before I have time to decide whether answering is stupid.

“That is not really any of your business.”

The words leave me through the same impossible channel.

Davion bolts upright from his chair.

For a man who seems born to make every gesture look intentional, the movement is almost ugly in its surprise. Glitzy takes a full step back at the same time, her hand not quite going to the glaive across her back, but close enough that Kit’s attention turns razor-thin through the bond.

Neither of them moves like they are about to attack.

“Harem Guildmaster.”

Davion says it softly, half confirmation, half conspiracy.

The words settle between us like a coin dropped into a well, and for one strange second, neither of us seems any happier for hearing the splash.

My wariness tightens into something sharper.

“How do you know that?” I ask. “What is this?”

For the first time since he sat beside me, Davion does not answer smoothly.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket with what should be an elegant gesture, but his fingers move a little too quickly. He withdraws a card of thick black stock edged in muted silver and old gold, then offers it to me with an excitement he does not quite manage to hide.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Master Locke,” he says. “A genuine pleasure. I promise you, we will be in touch.” His eyes flick to Glitzy. “Come along, Glitzy. We need to return to the hall and—”

“Who is we?” I cut in.

Davion’s smile returns, but it is thinner now. Brighter too. He nearly forces the card into my hand.

I glance down at it, and a certain amount of understanding washes through me before I even read the words.

On a black field, a stone hearth glows with red coals. Pale smoke rises from it, curling upward until the plume forms the faint shape of a rose. Beneath the emblem, written in stylized lettering, are three words.

The Whispering Hearth.

I stare at it.

Then I slouch back in my chair.

Of course.

Another guild invitation.

I move to hand the card back, but Davion and his companion are already in motion.

“Shopkeeper,” Davion calls, his voice snapping back into something polished enough to cut glass. “A Winterglass Wardrobe Winter Set for all of them. Put it on the guild tab. ”

The Outfitter’s measuring tape pauses in midair.

Kit has apparently had enough.

Despite the Outfitter’s immediate and deeply offended insistence that she remain still, she steps down from the fitting pedestal and comes to my side. Her amber eyes are sharp, fixed on Davion and the brightly smiling goblin beside him. Enora follows a handful of steps behind her, quiet beneath the shadow of her hat, one hand still wrapped around the Crystal Skull of the Spectral Choir. 

“That isn’t necessary,” I say.

Davion waves the objection away before it can reach him.

“It very much is necessary,” he says. “And I insist.” His smile returns, but the easy warmth no longer quite reaches his eyes. “Master Locke, we will be in touch. In the meantime, do not do anything stupid.”

He glances once toward the window, toward the market beyond it.

“And certainly do not join any other guilds.”

With a flourish to me and a nod to Kit and Enora that somehow manages to feel both charming and intrusive, Davion turns for the door. Glitzy falls in behind him, her gold-inlaid glaive catching the warm shoplight as she moves.

“I bid the three of you an excellent morning,” Davion says.

My attention follows Glitzy.

Not just because of the sway of her hips.

At least, not entirely.

I reach for that strange, wrong channel again, the one that is not mine and should not answer to me.

“Can you hear me?”

Glitzy’s golden eyes sparkle as she looks back over her shoulder.

“I sure can, hot stuff.”

Then the door closes behind them, and they are gone.

Kit’s ears perk straight up.

She looks from the door, to me, to Enora, then back to me again.

“What the hell was that all about?”

I keep my voice low, plain enough for both Kit and Enora to hear.

“Another Harem-Master,” I say. “I’ve never actually met one before.”

Kit’s ears tilt back.

I turn the guild card over in my hand, studying the hearth and rose-smoke stamped into the black stock.

“And another guild recruiter,” I add. “Like the ones at the gate.”

The Outfitter clears his throat with the delicate authority of a man who has decided that confusion is no excuse for wrinkled fabric.

“I would not dismiss such generosity too quickly, Master Locke,” he says, guiding Kit back toward the fitting pedestal with firm professional insistence. “The Winterglass Wardrobe Winter Set is my finest cold-weather package. Stylish, enchanted, properly fitted, and apparently being paid for in full by The Whispering Hearth on behalf of Lord Thalorian.”

Kit allows herself to be returned to the pedestal, but only barely.

Her eyes stay on the door.

“Whatever just happened between Davion, Glitzy, and me is not finished. It is not even close to finished. But Kit is half-dressed on a tailor’s pedestal, Enora still has a death-skull in her hand, and the Outfitter looks one wrinkle away from declaring war on all of us.” 

One by one, I watch the Outfitter work his magic.

That is the only word for it.

Kit is first, mostly because the Outfitter seems personally offended by the idea of letting her remain half-fitted after she abandoned his pedestal. He circles her with measuring tape, pins, cloth, and murmured corrections until black winter layers begin to take shape around her like they have been waiting for her all along.

“Adventurer’s Cut,” he announces, smoothing the front of the black mantle-jacket with two sharp tugs. “Light enough for movement, warm enough for Thronstadt, and fitted so the wearer may climb, leap, crouch, vanish, stab, or otherwise ruin someone’s morning without bunching at the waist.”

Kit’s ears perk a little at that.

White fur trims the hood and collar, soft against the black. Fixed pauldrons sit neatly over her shoulders without weighing them down, and matching gloves, a neck scarf, and boots appear from drawers and shelves with alarming speed.

The Outfitter steps back and gives her a satisfied nod.

“Rogue-friendly and enchanted to protect against gale-force winds,” he says.

Kit looks at herself in the mirror.

Then she looks at me through it.

“I do look cute.”

“You look dangerous,” I say.

Her smile sharpens.

“Also cute.”

The Outfitter moves to me next and makes a thoughtful sound that I do not entirely trust.

“For you, Master Locke, Adventurer’s Cut with Cloak. The same practical foundation, but with proper presence. You are too large to dress like a man trying not to be noticed.”

“I try not to be noticed all the time,” I say.

The Outfitter gives me a look.

It is not a kind one.

A heavy black winter cloak settles across my shoulders, trimmed in white fur, the hood deep enough to cut the wind without swallowing my face. Fixed pauldrons lock the shape into something broader and more formal, while the lining flashes deep purple when I move. Beneath it, he fits layered black cold-weather leather and armor underlayers, reinforced without becoming stiff. Arcane seamwork glimmers faintly along the edges, subtle as lightning trapped under thread.

“Warmth, protection, and authority,” the Outfitter says, fastening the clasp at my throat. “You may still make foolish decisions in it, but you will look significantly better while doing so.”

Kit snorts.

Enora tries not to smile and fails.

Then the Outfitter turns to her.

His expression changes by a fraction. Not softer exactly, but more precise.

“And for the lady mage, Arcanist Cut.”

Enora goes very still under the shadow of her hat.

“I do not need anything dramatic,” she says.

“No,” the Outfitter agrees. “You need something elegant enough that people assume the drama has already happened somewhere else.”

That gets a small sound out of Kit that might be approval.

The cloak he brings for Enora is heavy purple, rich and deep without being loud, trimmed in white fur at the hood and collar. The fixed pauldrons are narrower than mine, shaped to frame rather than broaden, and the matching gloves, scarf, and boots make the whole thing feel deliberate instead of defensive. When she turns, the fabric falls into a clean spellcaster’s silhouette, long and graceful, with enough room for movement but enough structure to keep her protected from the weather.

The Crystal Skull of the Spectral Choir glimmers faintly in her hand.

The Outfitter studies her in the mirror.

“Yes,” he says. “That will do.”

Enora looks at herself for a long moment.

Then, very quietly, she says, “It is warmer.”

The way she says it makes it clear she means more than the cloak.

A little color rises in her cheeks, and she lowers the brim of her hat just enough to hide behind it.

Kit catches my eye through the mirror.

I feel her through the bond, clearly pleased by the apparently free, exquisitely expensive gear now being fitted around us.

But underneath that, softer and warmer, I feel something else too.

She is glad Enora looks warmer.

Glad she looks pleased.

Glad she is going to be in matching party gear with the rest of us.

So am I.

The return trip to the Emberwell Inn in the early afternoon is shockingly different.

The wind still howls through Thronstadt’s streets. Snow still lashes across the thoroughfare in white, stinging sheets. But now it bends around us, sliding over fur trim, enchanted seams, and layered winter cloth instead of biting through every gap in our armor.

For the first time since arriving in the city, I walk without feeling like the north is personally trying to peel my skin off.

Kit is insufferably pleased with herself.

Enora pretends not to be.

I am not much better.

By the time we reach the Emberwell, the three of us look less like underdressed idiots who wandered through the wrong portal and more like adventurers who might actually survive the sidewalk.

Raka and Perri notice immediately.

Perri takes one look at Kit’s black winter mantle, Enora’s purple cloak, and my own heavy black one with its deep purple lining, then makes a small sound that is half relief and half betrayal.

“You are warm,” she says.

“Very,” Kit says, entirely too smug.

That settles it.

A few minutes later, I wrap Perri in my newly acquired cloak until only her ears, nose, and wide eyes are properly visible, then we all escort her and Raka back toward The Winterglass Wardrobe.

Raka insists she is fine.

Raka also has frost clinging to the edges of her fur by the time we reach the shop.

She presents herself as unaffected, of course. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Golden eyes narrowed at the wind, but the biting cold of the day is enough to bring even her into reluctant agreement with the obvious.

“You need the gear,” I say.

Raka looks at me unwilling to admit she’s cold too.

A little snow breaks loose from one of her ears.

“I said nothing,” she growls, teeth nearly chattering. 

“You are covered in frost.”

“It is decorative.”

Perri, still bundled inside my cloak, gives the smallest possible laugh.

Raka sighs.

“Fine,” she says. “A cloak may be useful.”

By the time we step through the door, the Outfitter is already waiting, as if he has spent the last hour standing in a pool of cedar-scented light anticipating my return.

His eyes pass over Raka first, then Perri bundled in my cloak, and something like artistic hunger wakes up in his expression.

“Ah,” he says, clasping his hands together. “The unfinished half of the party returns. Excellent. I was beginning to worry I would have to live the rest of my life knowing I had sent only three-fifths of a proper ensemble into the streets of Thronstadt.”

Perri blinks up at him from inside my cloak.

Raka narrows her eyes.

The Outfitter points decisively.

“The little one first. Before she freezes into a decorative woodland figurine.” The warmth of his amulet pours over her as I help unwrap her from my cloak.” 

Perri makes a tiny sound of protest, but it is weak and unconvincing, especially once the Outfitter’s warming charm washes over her and coaxes the stiffness from her shoulders. He guides her gently onto the fitting pedestal, hands already moving, pulling cloth, measuring, pinning, and layering with the kind of speed that makes it feel less like tailoring and more like a very expensive summoning ritual.

“For this one,” he declares, “Snowdrop Cut.”

He says it with such certainty that even Perri seems startled into accepting it.

White and cream gather around her in soft, careful layers. A long quilted winter coat settles over padded underlayers, fitted close enough to keep in warmth without swallowing her whole. Light Yeti-fur leggings line her lower half, adding thickness and softness without making her look bulky. Matching gloves, a neck scarf, and small sturdy boots follow in quick succession, each piece finding its place with neat precision.

Perri turns before the mirror, ears lifting higher and higher as the coat settles around her.

The Outfitter steps back and places one hand over his heart.

“There,” he says. “A proper winter silhouette. Warm enough to survive the city, charming enough to shame the snow itself.”

Perri’s hands smooth self-consciously over the front of the coat.

“It’s… very nice,” she says, which for Perri is dangerously close to a full endorsement.

Kit, lounging nearby in her own new black winter layers, grins openly.

“You look adorable.”

Perri’s cheeks pink at once.

The Outfitter, having successfully conquered rabbitfolk outerwear, turns toward Raka with the solemn focus of a man approaching a second mountain.

“And now,” he says, “the large one.”

Raka folds her arms.

“I was fine before.”

The Outfitter looks at the lingering frost along the edges of her fur, then at me, then back to her.

“No,” he says. “You were enduring. There is a difference.”

Kit snorts.

Raka grunts something that might be agreement or might be a threat.

The Outfitter circles her once, thoughtful and appraising, and then his mouth curves into something almost triumphant.

“Natural fur is an excellent defense against the cold,” he says. “But enchanted Yeti-fur, properly layered and cut to move with the body…”

He trails off as Raka’s eyes narrow at him.

The Outfitter wisely changes course.

“Vanguard Cut,” he says.

That gets Raka’s attention.

Purple falls over her shoulders in a heavy winter cloak trimmed in white fur, rich and deep enough to match the rest of us while still looking like it belongs on someone who might split a barricade in half if conversation fails. The hood is broad, the fixed pauldrons strong and clean, the matching gloves and scarf thick without becoming clumsy. Then come the leggings, dense Yeti-fur worked for warmth and movement, and finally the boots, solid enough to plant into snow, ice, or someone else’s chest with equal confidence.

The Outfitter adjusts the lay of the cloak, steps back, and nods in satisfaction.

“Built,” he says, “like a mountain standing against wind and ice.”

That, finally, earns the smallest upward twitch from one corner of Raka’s mouth. She rolls her shoulders, flexes once, and gives the weight a silent, grudging test.

“It does not hinder me,” she says.

The Outfitter looks mildly offended.

“My dear wolfkin, if I produced clothing that hindered you, I would throw myself into the nearest frozen canal.”

Raka studies herself in the mirror for another moment. The heavy purple cloak, the white fur trim, the broader silhouette, the way it all frames her size instead of trying to hide it.

She nods once.

“Good.”

High praise.

I smirk to myself and step back, looking at the five of us together in the mirrors of The Winterglass Wardrobe.

Black and purple.

White fur.

Matching winter lines.

A real party.

Not just scraped together anymore.

Built.

Kit leans against my side, her head resting lightly against my shoulder as all five of us look into the mirrors together.

The Outfitter steps back with the quiet satisfaction of a man admiring a finished spell. Or a finished painting. Or five previously underdressed idiots finally made presentable through the grace of his own genius.

I look my party over in the mirror.

Kit at my shoulder, sharp and smug in black.

Raka broad and immovable in purple.

Perri soft and bright in white.

Enora quiet beneath her hat, looking warmer than she wants to admit.

For the first time since stepping through the portal, Thronstadt does not make us look lost.

“We can do this,” I say.

No one argues.

It is hard to, standing there like that.

Even Kit’s ears tilt in reluctant approval as she studies our reflection.

“Okay,” she says at last. “Maybe Thronstadt won’t be completely terrible.”

I open my HUD and check the equipment list.

One by one, the new cold-weather pieces settle into place beside our names. Cloaks, coats, gloves, scarves, boots, enchanted linings, windwarding seams. The Winterglass Wardrobe Winter Set sits there like a very expensive answer to a problem Thronstadt has been screaming at us since the moment we arrived.

I close the display and look at my party in the mirror again.

Tomorrow, no more excuses.

We find these Frost Warrens and see what hunting in Thronstadt is really about.