As soon as I wake, it feels as though the festival has begun.

  It’s planned to be an evening ordeal, involving a feast, dance, games for the children, and of course Dizzi’s fireworks display, but already the anticipatory atmosphere seems to have infected the air.

  Arachnoids have strung up silk streamers all over the palace, dyed bright colors of red, orange, and yellow with help of the textile team. The halls smell thick with the steam of a rich and salty stew. Kids are running throughout, laughing and playing with cloudstone balls, which are becoming the toy of choice.

  “My kids have mentioned a game using those rocks,” Nek says that morning at the daily check-in. “They’re developing a sport of some kind.” He smiles fondly. “We never had this much time for leisure when I was a kit.”

  “Hopefully we’ll secure more time for the adults to partake in leisure as well,” I remark, thinking of the upcoming trade talks at the end of the week. “If we’re lucky, we’ll acquire some supplies and tools that should take some pressure off everyone.”

  “The textile group is already finding time to work on side projects between the necessary linen orders,” Torim agrees. “Once the needs within the Fortress have been taken care of, perhaps they could focus on creating more clothing and blankets for export.”

  “Or they could simply enjoy the downtime,” I reply, amused. Fyrethians are a hard-working people, mostly out of necessity, I suspect. I wonder if there will be a cultural shift in the younger generation, growing up in a much different climate from their parents.

  “We’ll have plenty of that at the festival,” Mirzayael says, folding her arms.

  There’s still a faint tension between us from last night’s argument. I hate that it’s bled into today, which should be one of relaxation and companionship. Dizzi nervously glances between us, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Speaking of today,” Nek says, “I have the current itinerary.”

  “Yes, please share,” I say, relieved for his intervention.

  Nek consults a slate he’s carrying. “We’ll gather in the main hall at two hands before sunset. They will likely expect some words from one or both of you.”

  Mirzayael and I exchange an uncertain look. Neither of us are particularly good public speakers.

  “We’ll have something prepared,” she says.

  Nek nods. “After that the kitchen crew will begin serving the feast. There will be ten rounds, I’m told, one every half hour; the cooks have all taken shifts so none of them are working for more than an hour.” Nek scratches his ear. “I’m not exactly sure how they have it all worked out, but they seem to have a plan.

  “Throughout the evening there are various groups that each have volunteered to entertain in some way. The first group is a family of dracid who have a dance they’d like to perform. The last event is Dizzi’s explosion display.”

  “Fireworks display!” I correct, desperately hoping that was merely a miscommunication on Nek’s part and not a misunderstanding on mine.

  “I mean, they’re basically explosions,” Dizzi says.

  She’s not wrong, but the language still concerns me.

  “I have a full list of planned events and activities if you want to review them,” Nek offers.

  “No,” I say, “I’m sure they’ll all be lovely.”

  Mirzayael also dismisses Nek’s offer. “I trust any Fyrethian with whatever activity they wish to share.”

  He nods. “Of course. Then the main thing that’s left is the preparation of the main hall…”

  Most of this is decorations, but Nek needs my help for some slight adjustments. The main hall is about the size of a large sports gymnasium, so it can fit all of our city’s inhabitants inside at once, but it’s a tight fit. Typically we don’t all eat at the same time—and some take the food back to their houses instead of sharing the communal space—so we’ll need to make some adaptations for the ensuing feast.

  While the meal circles here are mostly designated by rings of fur and blankets that act as pillows, back in Fyreneth’s Keep, the meal circles had been shallow depressions set into the floor. Consulting with Nek on what size and variety of circles should be made, I use the Dungeon Core to recreate the indentations, spacing them out to create wide walking paths through the room designed to simplify trips to the kitchen.

  Conversely, I also raise a couple shallow platforms above floor level to provide performers a dedicated space and make them easier to see. And with some convincing on Nek’s part, I also raise a portion of the floor at the head of the room, where Mirzayael, the councilors, and I will be seated. The wall behind us has also been removed and adapted so Ollie can lounge in the space beyond. The open wall will also give us access to the sky to view the firework show at the end of the night.

  By the time I finish helping with all the adjustments to the main hall and head back to the throne room, I find a new party is awaiting me. A group of felis and arachnoids I recognize from the textile group have arrived, and are speaking with a distinctly-uncomfortable looking Mirzayael.

  I join the group when they catch sight of me and excitedly beckon me over. Mirzayael notices with a grimace. “It’s too late for you to escape, now.”

  “Escape?” I repeat with curious amusement.

  “Lord Fyreneth!” one of the arachnoids exclaims. He has an off-white shell, hair long but drawn up in a bun. Echo identifies him as Yequirael, which is fantastic, as I’d definitely forgotten his name despite having met him once or twice before. “I’m glad we found you. We were just going over the options with Lord Mirzayael.”

  “Options for what?” I ask.

  The arachnoid holds up a bolt of shimmering cloth. My breath catches in my throat.

  It’s the most amazing fabric I’ve ever seen. The texture ripples like water as it passes through the tailor’s hands, and a faint iridescent scattering of rainbows glimmer in its folds. A variety of fabrics are being presented to Mirzayael and I; some black, some red, some white or blue. Some have designs embroidered into the cloth, while others are plain—though I would be hard pressed to call any of the textiles plain, given their clear artistry.

  “These are amazing,” I say, running my hand over the fabric. It’s as smooth as silk—which it probably is. Spider silk of some sort, though this is nothing like the durable and tacky lines I’ve witnessed Mirzayael use in combat.

  Yequirael beams. “I’m pleased to hear it. We can tailor them to your fit with a few measurements, but we wanted to see which style you would prefer, first.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Style?” I say, thrown.

  I’ve never really had much of a style. At work, it was all suits and collared shirts. The most colorful I got was some silly sock designs. Wearing more interesting clothes was a nice thought in theory, but that also involved an eye for fashion I never had. Sticking with the expected attire was the easiest and least unnerving option available.

  I helplessly look at Mirzayael. She snorts. “If you think I’ve any instinct for these matters, you are mistaken.”

  I chuckle nervously. We really are the two worst individuals to ask about this.

  Some of the colors are so bold and beautiful. But are they something I would ever dare wear? Would I look like a fraud?

  “I’m not sure,” I admit, looking over the dizzying number of options. “Perhaps, is there a color that is representative of our kingdom?”

  “Royal colors?” Mirzayael drums her fingers against one of her legs in thought. “I’m unsure. If there were any in Fyreneth’s day, I think they’ve been lost to time.”

  Not surprising, given the Keep’s limited resources for indulging in things such as decorations and dyes. “I’d prefer to leave the decision in your hands,” I tell Yequirael. “I suspect you all have a better eye for this than myself.”

  “Agreed,” Mirzayael quickly joins, and I can feel her relief at being able to defer the choice to someone else.

  Yequirael exchanges a thoughtful look with his team. “Colors representative of Fyreneth? I think we can come up with something.”

  Oh, good. Maybe one day I will feel comfortable picking out bold colors and styles of my own, but I am not quite at that point today.

  The tailors each take us to our individual chambers to take measurements and start stitching our clothes together. I’d been to a tailor once as a human, to get my jacket properly fitted. Much like now, it had involved a lot of standing still, raising arms, and allowing the tailor to take measurements. However at the end of that meeting I had left without my jacket, and they had gotten back to me a week later with all the alterations. This experience is somewhat different.

  Even as a felis takes measurements, Yequirael is draping cloth over me, pinching edges together, and seamlessly adhering the fabric to itself using what is certainly some type of magic. I try to focus on this instead of my extreme self-consciousness as they begin to fashion the clothes around me in real-time.

  Like all harpy clothes, the fabric on the back is split into three pieces, one hanging between the wings, and two hanging on either side, so they can then be tied and secured beneath. A lot of harpy clothes are kind of long and tasselly as a result. Arachnoid clothes are similar, with cloth draping over and secured beneath their abdomen, slits cut in the fabric where the legs are located. Dracid, dwarves, and felis have attire most similar to that I’m familiar with on Earth, though even those have slight alterations to accommodate the felis and dracid’s tails. It’s probably because I’m still not entirely familiar with harpy attire that it takes me so long to realize what sort of clothes they are making.

  It’s a dress.

  My stomach performs an acrobatic flip.

  Mirzayael’s mind stirs. “Is something wrong?” she asks me.

  “No,” I says. I’m not sure how to feel, actually. “I just wasn’t expecting it to be a dress.”

  I can feel Mirzayael nodding along to my words. “They are not very practical. What if we were attacked while wearing such ceremonial garb? I could trip on the hem.”

  I smile at her priorities. “I have nothing against dresses,” I tell her. My chest flutters with sudden nerves. “I just… I’ve never worn one before.”

  “Oh.” Mirzayael sounds surprised. “If you have nothing against them, then why haven’t you?”

  The butterflies stir up a storm. “On my world,” I say haltingly, “or at least, where I lived, dresses were clothes mostly meant for women. It wasn’t common for a man to wear such clothing, and if they did, they were likely to receive harsh disapproval.”

  Mirzayael emanates faint confusion. “But you are a… Oh.”

  There’s something comforting in the knowledge that she had forgotten about my other life, and only sees me for who I am now. But the conversation itself has stirred a flurry of conflicting emotions within me.

  “Are you uncomfortable with this?” Mirzayael asks. “We could ask them to make different attire.”

  “No,” I say. “No, this is fine. I suppose I am just a bit nervous.”

  “What about?” she wonders.

  I’m not sure if I know myself. “Perhaps, worried it will feel wrong. Or I will look silly.”

  “Well, if it feels wrong, you can always change,” Mirzayael says. “Though I highly doubt your second concern is valid.”

  I smile to myself. Leave it to Mirzayael to berate you for your own self-doubt. My nerves aren’t fully calmed, but speaking to her about it has helped. “Thank you. I’ll count on you to inform me if the look is indeed silly.”

  Warm amusement radiates from her mind. And strangely, it makes my chest hurt.

  “Mirzayael,” I continue after a moment. “I want to apologize for last night. I shouldn’t have gone back on my promise about the weapon. It’s not my decision to make. Having such power frightens me. But it’s not my power; this power belongs to Fyrethians, and I shouldn’t have fought with you over it. I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” Mirzayael says, her tone softer than I’ve ever heard it before. “I understand your hesitation. You are a gentle soul, Fyre. So let me be the one to make the hard decisions when you cannot.”

  I’m not sure if I can do that. I don’t think letting her make the final call would make me feel absolved of responsibility for the consequences. But I’m touched that she would want to take that burden from me.

  Mentally, I move back into the Dungeon Core’s interface and navigate to the third watch tower. Hesitating there for a moment, I repair the broken spell circuit and connect the dormant spell to the network.

  The guilt I’d been feeling over the spell circle immediately begins to ebb away.

  “I’ll always have your back,” I tell her, returning to my body. “Whatever you need, whatever this city needs, I’ll be there at your side to support you.”

  Affection radiates from her mind, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Thank you.”

  After a time, Yequirael determines his work is done. He deosn’t offer me a mirror, as the tailors want to reveal the two of us at the same time. We’re both ushered back into the throne room, where a great mirror stretches along one of the walls. The tailors excitedly back us up in what I feel is a fairly ridiculous manner, a sentiment Mirzayael equally shares.

  “Okay,” Yequirael says. “You both can look.”

  We turn toward the mirror.

  I’m not sure if the spike of awe that jolts through my mind originated from me or Mirzayael, but it oscillates between both of us for quite some time after that.

  I’m in a sleeveless black gown that shimmers with an opalescent sheen in the throne room’s light. It appears to be made of dozens of sashes, two of which cross dramatically over my shoulders and down to the opposite hip, while more sweep about my legs in a forest of overlapping tassels. The dark hue stands out starkly against my bright plumage, so when I move a leg, a flash of brighter colors briefly blaze from within. The occasional trim and details that adorn the dress come in shades of crimson, gold, and copper.

  Mirzayael, meanwhile, is dressed the opposite. The primary shades of her robes are made of the same colors as the highlights in my dress, and the layers overlap in such a way that she looks like she might be wearing living flames themselves. The trim on her attire is the same iridescent black as my dress, matching the hue of her shell.

  Mirzayael abruptly laughs, startling me out of my awe. She reaches down to run one of my black tassels through her hand. “They have given you my legs.”

  When she lets go of the fabric and it collides with the rest, setting them all swaying, I realize she’s right—the design is reminiscent of arachnoid legs. I look back at Mirzayael’s robes more critically, then find myself grinning as well.

  “And you have my wings,” I say, running a hand over the side of her abdomen where the colors sweep back ornately in the likeness of feathers.

  Mirzayael turns to get a better look in the mirror, and she laughs again. “So I do.”

  They’ve flipped our color palettes—with a dash of extra drama. It should look silly, perhaps, but my heart feels like it is about to burst with awe and appreciation.

  “You’re beautiful,” I say before I can think the words through.

  Mirzayael’s surprise is as obvious in her mind as it is on her face. Both shift quickly to embarrassment. The embarrassment hits me at the same moment, but I don’t regret what I said. I meant it.

  “No one has ever said that to me before,” she says stiffly. Her mind is a mess of too many emotions for me to decipher.

  “Me neither,” I admit. “At least, not until I came here.”

  That seems to shake her out of her shock. “What? Who told you you’re beautiful here?”

  “Captain Marlowe,” I say. “Just a few days ago.”

  Her expression darkens. “Did he now.”

  I can’t help but laugh over the sudden and obvious jealousy. “I think he was just trying to flatter Dizzi and I.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Now, now.” I take her hand, and she turns away from the mirror to look at me directly. “Don’t let a person who is not even here sour the day. We’ve a festival to enjoy.”

  “Yes,” she says, her bristled mind melting back into fondness. “We do.”

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