Chapter 35: The Merchant's Banquet

The afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the safehouse courtyard when the iron gate rattled open. Julian strode in, holding an embossed, gold-leafed parchment with an expression of mingled excitement and anxiety.

He found Zevryn sharpening his blade near the portico and hurried over, presenting the envelope. "My father is hosting a major merchant banquet on the third night," Julian explained, bowing slightly. "He insisted I extend a formal invitation to you, Master Zevryn. As a guest of honor, of course."

Zevryn glanced at the ornate parchment, his pale eyes cold and dismissive. "I have no interest in merchant politics or empty flattery. Pass on my regards and decline."

Julian’s face fell, and he immediately began to plead. "Please, Master Zevryn! My father would be deeply offended, and frankly, I could use your presence to keep the rival houses from trying to undermine us. Just for an hour or two!"

Zevryn stared at him for a long, silent moment before letting out a faint sigh. "Very well. I will attend."

Relieved, Julian brightened up, then suddenly turned his attention toward Reniah, who was quietly wiping down the weapon racks nearby. "Oh, and you should come too, Reniah."

Reniah froze, her eyes widening in absolute panic as she violently shook her head. She was a servant, a shadow; stepping into a high-society banquet among wealthy merchants was entirely unthinkable.

Julian, emboldened by weeks of grueling training alongside her, stepped closer and begged, "Come on, please! It won't be fun if I'm the only student sweating under the lights. Say yes!"

Caught off guard by his persistence, Reniah hesitated, her gaze darting to Zevryn for permission. Seeing a faint, approving nod from her master, she finally gave a small, reluctant nod.

As soon as Julian left, however, panic set in. Reniah stood in the center of the courtyard, nearly on the verge of tears, looking down at her rough servant clothes. She had nothing to wear to a high-society gala.

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Seeing her distress, Zevryn spoke up. "Go to the innkeeper and ask for the address of the premier bespoke tailor in the city. Tell him I sent you."

Reniah nodded and hurried out. Two days later, after visiting the district and completing hasty fittings, the preparations were set for the night of the gala.

The tailor turned out to be an eccentric, high-strung fashionista who initially gasped in horror at Zevryn's instructions.

"Modest?!" the tailor had cried, throwing his hands up in despair. "My lord, elegance demands bold statements, sweeping silks, and gold embroidery!"

"Modest," Zevryn repeated, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute register. "And it will match my taste, or you will answer to me."

The tailor had swallowed hard, instantly subduing his flamboyant protests. "A-As you wish, my lord. Dashing, yet understated."

When Reniah was measured, Zevryn had firmly instructed, "Keep hers simple as well. And on the night of the delivery, bring someone to assist her with dressing and cosmetics."

On the night of the banquet, the tailor and a professional makeup artist arrived at the safehouse to prepare Reniah. When she finally stepped out of the private quarters, even Reniah gasped softly at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Draped in a masterfully tailored, elegant black dress that complemented her agile frame and dark hair, she looked breathtakingly refined, transforming completely from a scruffy servant into a poised young lady.

Moments later, heavy footsteps echoed down the staircase.

Zevryn descended into the foyer, clad in his impeccably fitted, dark tailored garments and storm-grey cloak. The moment the tailor and the makeup artist laid eyes on him, their breath caught. Overwhelmed by his natural, terrifyingly regal aura, which carried the unmistakable weight of high-born drow royalty, they dropped instantly to their knees, trembling as if standing before a king.

Zevryn looked down at them with mild annoyance, then glanced at the tailor. "I told you to make my attire modest."

The tailor stammered, pressing his forehead against the floorboards, "M-My lord... true class cannot be hidden. It shines through regardless of what you wear, even if you tried to bury it in rags!"

Zevryn let out a low, weary sigh, turning away from the groveling artisans. "Let's go."

He walked out through the iron gate, where a simple, unassuming carriage waited by the curb, courtesy of the innkeeper. The coachman perched on the box and the armed escort standing beside the door were trusted faces from the local inn, maintaining strict operational discretion. Zevryn and Reniah climbed inside, and the carriage smoothly rolled away into the night, carrying them toward the glittering lights of the merchant manor.