Chapter 216: Dress Up!

The impending Imperial Banquet was not merely a social engagement; it was a highly publicized, continent-wide political arena.

The Emperor had demanded the presence of the newly recognized Heir of the North, intending to parade her before the Capital’s elite.

Duke Kaelus von Nacht understood the assignment perfectly.

If the Emperor wished to look upon his daughter, she would not be presented as a provincial stray, nor would she be squeezed into the ridiculous, restrictive, frilly fashion of the Southern nobility.

She was going to be armored in uncompromising perfection.

Which was why, at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning, the grand drawing room of the Nacht Capital Estate had been transformed into a tribunal.

Standing in a trembling, sweating line across the plush blueberry carpet were the Top Ten Master Tailors of the Imperial Capital.

These were artisans who had dressed Duchesses, clothed foreign royalty, and dictated the seasonal trends of the entire continent. They were accustomed to being treated with fawning reverence.

Currently, they looked as though they were facing a firing squad.

Duke Kaelus von Nacht was sitting in a high-backed velvet armchair, his long legs crossed, his violet eyes glowing with the lethal, hyper-critical intensity of a hawk analyzing a field of particularly disappointing mice.

Standing on a small wooden pedestal in the center of the room, acting as the incredibly patient, slightly bored centerpiece of the inquisition, was Seraphina.

"Next," Kaelus commanded, his voice a low, freezing rumble.

A terrified, balding tailor with a measuring tape draped over his trembling neck stepped forward.

Behind him, two assistants wheeled in a dressmaker’s dummy adorned in a gown of bright pink taffeta, covered in hundreds of tiny, cascading silk roses, lace ruffles, and a big, ridiculous bow at the back.

"Y-Your Grace!" the tailor stammered, bowing so deeply he nearly headbutted the floor. "I present ’The Rose of the South’! Woven from the finest Aethelgard silk, utilizing three layers of petticoats to achieve maximum volume and presence!"

Kaelus stared at the dress.

The silence in the room stretched for ten agonizing seconds.

"Is this a garment, or a highly decorated pastry?" Kaelus finally asked, his voice dripping with pure, unadulterated disgust.

The tailor turned the color of chalk. "I-It is the height of current Capital fashion, Your Grace! The volume is meant to project—"

"It is meant to project a tripping hazard," Kaelus interrupted sharply, standing up from his armchair and stalking around the dummy like a predator inspecting a trap. "Look at this hemline. It drags across the floor. If she were required to execute an evasive sprint to avoid a magical blast, the taffeta would tangle around her ankles. Furthermore, the volume of this... this pink monstrosity makes her an incredibly large, visible target for snipers."

"S-Snipers, Your Grace?!" the tailor squeaked, horrified. "At a Palace Banquet?!"

"One must always account for snipers," Kaelus sneered, flicking one of the silk roses with a black-gloved finger. "The color is too aggressive and loud, yet devoid of authority. It is boring, and common. It looks like a flaming flamingo that lost a fight with a lace factory. Rejected. Remove it from my sight before I burn it."

The tailor practically scrambled backward, his assistants yanking the dummy out of the room as fast as the wheels would carry it.

Seraphina let out a tiny, suppressed sigh from her pedestal.

’This is the seventeenth dress he has rejected today,’ Seraphina’s adult mind complained, though she was highly amused by his ridiculous critiques. ’He rejected the blue velvet because it wasn’t the exact shade of the midnight sky over the Glacial Abyss. He rejected the emerald silk because it looked too much like the Verdant Reach’s flag. He is treating chhild fashion like a military arms race.’

"Next!" Kaelus barked.

The most famous, elite seamstress in the Capital, Madame Vionnet, stepped forward. She looked offended by the rejection of her peers, carrying a sleek, elegant dress of deep, rich crimson velvet, embroidered with delicate gold thread. It was simple, unrestrictive, and undeniably beautiful.

"Your Grace," Madame Vionnet said stiffly. "Crimson and gold. The colors of Imperial power. The fabric is lightweight but warm. The cut allows for absolute freedom of movement."

Kaelus stared at it.

His violet eyes narrowed.

"The aesthetics are acceptable," Kaelus conceded grudgingly. "However. Feel the lining."

Madame Vionnet frowned. "The lining is pure cotton, Your Grace. Soft against the skin."

"Cotton," Kaelus repeated, as if the word were a foul curse. "You expect my daughter, the Sovereign of the Vanguard, to walk into a room filled with two thousand political vipers wearing nothing but cotton and velvet to protect her vital organs?"

"It is a banquet, Your Grace, not a battlefield!"

"In the Capital, there is no difference," Kaelus snapped, his aura flaring with cold, paranoid intensity. "The velvet is useless against a poisoned dart. The cotton provides zero resistance against a concealed dagger."

Kaelus turned to face the terrified line of tailors.

"Listen to me very carefully," the Reaper commanded, his voice echoing through the drawing room. "You are not designing for a fragile Capital debutante. I do not care about your lace, your ruffles, or your ridiculous bows. You will line the interior of her gowns with flexible, woven silk. It must be completely invisible to the naked eye, lightweight, and capable of stopping a crossbow bolt at twenty paces."

The tailors gasped collectively.

Woven mythril-silk was incredibly rare, outrageously expensive, and usually reserved for the inner linings of the Emperor’s personal battle armor.

"B-But Your Grace!" Madame Vionnet protested weakly. "The mythril threading will alter the drape of the fabric! It will be incredibly difficult to stitch! It will require weeks of labor!"

"I am paying you ten times your annual salary," Kaelus sneered, leaning back into his armchair. "You have three days. Make it work. If the dress is boring, common, or structurally vulnerable, I will freeze your sewing needles. Now, fetch the mythril."

As the tailors practically trampled each other to flee the room and begin their impossible task, Seraphina hopped off the wooden pedestal.