The streets of the Inner Spires glistened with post-rain sheen, awash in the amber hush of a waning sun. It was late afternoon, and the shadows of Blackwood Tower stretched long and angular across the flagstone paths like grasping hands. The trio walked in silence, their boots soft on the damp ground, and the air fragrant with petrichor and the faint, luxurious scent of perfume wafting from the boutique-lined avenues.
They reached the tailor's shop without incident—though Camael complained three times about the cold and twice about the absurdity of custom-tailored attire.
"Honestly," he muttered, "if I'm going to be forced into a suit, it better come with knives or small explosions sewn into the cuffs."
Caspian said nothing. His expression was calm, but he noted the subtle tension in Andrew's jaw. The older man's gaze flicked toward the door of the atelier, a carved mahogany masterpiece wrapped in ivy wrought from iron. The brass handle was shaped like a spider's leg, and a sigil of delicate needlework glowed faintly at its center.
Andrew pushed it open.
The bell above the door let out a sharp, metallic chime—almost offended, as though it recognized exactly who had returned.
Inside, the atelier pulsed with a quiet, theatrical elegance—less a tailor's shop and more a sanctum of living artistry. Cascades of silk draped from the high ceilings like waterfalls caught in mid-fall, swaying with the grace of whispered wind. Skeins of velvet, charmeuse, and brocade floated gently through the air, suspended as if by enchantment, their textures catching the light in slow, deliberate arcs. Rich fabrics brushed against one another with the softness of breath, humming with hidden magic.
Gold thread shimmered in lazy spirals above them, drifting like sunlit pollen in a dream, catching fire with every flicker of chandelier light. The scent of pressed linen, fresh lavender, and old cedar lingered in the air—refined and comforting, like the pages of a well-loved book. Hidden within the walls, violins played—a delicate, melancholy tune that seemed to follow them like a memory, soft and wistful. Each note was stitched into the very air, turning every breath into music, every step into a kind of ritual.
"It's looks different this time" Caspian stated, looking at the changed shop
"Yeah, Alfonse loves his interior designers" Camael snorted jealously.
The three looked around for a moment, then their attention was drawn to movement around the staircase.
"Ah!"
The voice, unmistakably theatrical, descended upon them like a stage curtain.
Alfonse Featherworth stood atop the spiral staircase, his long robe trailing like smoke behind him. His face was carved from elegance: high cheekbones, a sculpted beard, and eyes like molten topaz. One gloved hand rested over his chest in feigned relief, the other splayed outward as though greeting royalty.
"Caspian!" he proclaimed, eyes locking on Caspian. "Back from the land of the unconscious, I see."
Caspian inclined his head politely. "It was nothing permanent."
Alfonse's expression melted into something closer to genuine concern. "My dear boy, I had a memorial sash designed in your honor. Black silk, gold filigree, very tasteful. Shall I burn it?"
"That won't be necessary."
Then Alfonse's gaze shifted—to Andrew and Camael.
His smile thinned. "And you brought these two back."
Andrew gave him a courteous nod. "Good to see you too, Featherworth."
"It's unfortunate to see you too Grayson" Alfonse answered with a thin smile.
Camael offered a lazy wave. "You're as dramatically judgmental as ever."
"And you're still not tall enough to reach my lowest shelf," Alfonse replied smoothly. "Tragedy. Come in."
"D-did you hear what he said. The nerve! I swear if I was a little taller I'd beat the brakes off of him!" Camael muttered, to which Caspian promptly shushed him.
He descended the last of the stairs with the grace of a panther, snapping his fingers toward the back curtain. Beads shimmered and parted like water, revealing the velvet-lined hall beyond.
"Well, then," Alfonse said, gesturing grandly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We need suits," Caspian answered. "For the Blackwood Ball."
At that, Alfonse paused. A glimmer passed through his eyes—interest, disdain, amusement.
"You three? Attending that overdecorated den of false smiles and long knives?" He sighed. "The world is shifting under my feet. Come. You'll need private fittings."
They followed him into the corridor, where levitating mannequins turned slowly in the air, dressed in opulent suits of every conceivable style. Runes pulsed faintly across the walls—warding spells, privacy enchantments, temperature stabilizers.
Alfonse gestured toward three side rooms. "Inside. Disrobe to the waist. The scanners require an unobstructed body map."
Caspian paused in front of the door.
"Do I really need to take my shirt off?"
"Yes," Alfonse replied, brows raised. "Unless you want your measurements warped like wet parchment. Nobody can see you. The mirrors don't reflect. The walls are spelled. You'll be fine."
Caspian hesitated a moment longer, then stepped inside.
The room was softly lit, the walls black and polished like obsidian—but no reflection stared back. The scanner sat like a mechanical flower in the ceiling, folded and inert for now. A sigil on the floor pulsed gently, awaiting activation.
He undressed slowly.
First the coat, then the undershirt.
The air in the fitting room was sharp and clinical, brushing against Caspian's skin like cold breath. He hesitated, then drew off his shirt, folding it carefully over one arm. The light overhead, subtle but thorough, revealed what the clothes had long concealed. His skin, pale as mist, bore the brutal honesty of a life lived far too close to death. Muscles, lean but coiled with precise strength, flexed and shifted beneath a tapestry of scars—so many it was impossible to count them all. Long slashes curved across his ribs like whip marks; fine lines etched his shoulders and back, clustered in old patterns of restraint and violence. Some were brutal and jagged, torn by blades or claws or worse. Others were disturbingly neat—surgical, intentional. There were burns too, pale discolorations like forgotten brands, and punctures that had long since closed, leaving only ghostly impressions behind.
The most prominent scar, however, was impossible to miss. It carved a merciless path from his left shoulder down across his torso to his hip—deep, uneven, and angry. It looked as though someone had tried to cut him in half once, and the body had simply refused to die. It was old, healed, but still raw in the way that only deep pain could remain—never fully forgotten. Caspian stood still, gaze low, as the scanning device unfolded with mechanical grace, its soft lights sweeping over every ridge and fracture like the fingers of some invisible archivist. Not a word was spoken. The machine hummed its judgment, silent and thorough. Only when the scan finished did he move, dressing swiftly, quietly, like a man used to concealing more than just skin.
Andrew and Camael stood near the tall arch of the atelier's window, quiet observers to Alfonse's deliberate, practiced movements. The room itself felt like a sanctum—paneled in lacquered walnut and trimmed with gilded molding, it gave off the rich, expectant hush of a music hall just before the first note. Fabric floated gently through the air, suspended by invisible threads of magic. Velvet, silk, and wool drifted around Alfonse like petals in a windless storm, guided with elegance and precision.
Alfonse moved with the ease of a man born to the rhythm of tailoring. Every flick of his wrist redirected a fabric's course. Every nod or narrowed gaze summoned a stitch, an invisible seam, a perfect line. He wore a three-piece suit of his own making—midnight gray with deep blue pinstripes, perfectly pressed. His hair, snow-white and neatly parted, gave him the air of a man who had neither hurried nor fumbled in years.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth and cultivated, "the time has arrived. Choose wisely. Your attire will not simply adorn you—it will speak for you, long before you utter a word."
Camael, already pacing with a barely-contained impatience, strode toward a length of shadowy cloth hanging in midair. It was black, almost too black, as though it absorbed light. He grinned. "That one. Sharp and simple. Just the right amount of doom."
Alfonse offered a brief, approving nod. "A bold statement. Formidable without indulgence. It will command attention without begging for it."
Camael stepped back as the cloth floated down toward a mannequin. With a gentle pulse of magic, it wrapped itself into shape.
Andrew, more thoughtful, lingered near a bolt of deep brown wool laced with barely perceptible silver threading. The light from the chandelier brought out subtle hints of copper within the weave. He touched it lightly.
"Good texture," Andrew murmured. "Reserved. Practical."
"And quietly elegant," Alfonse agreed. "It speaks of precision. Dignity without ostentation."
The fabric floated down, enveloping the mannequin in smooth, tailored lines.
Caspian said nothing at first. He paced slowly among the options, his fingers brushing across polished silk and soft velvet. His eyes landed on a dark navy fabric near the back—almost black, but with a hint of blue that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. It had the calm depth of a midnight sea.
He stepped forward. "That one," he said.
Alfonse inclined his head. "An elegant selection. Subtle. Not easily read. A suit for a man who does not waste words."
The navy cloth floated down toward the third mannequin. As it wrapped and shaped itself, forming clean lapels and crisp cuffs, Caspian watched the process in silence.
Once the mannequins had fully taken form, Alfonse circled them slowly. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a slender wand of pale ivory, tapping each suit lightly. The seams tightened, lines sharpened, and the cuffs adjusted themselves by a fraction.
"Now," he said, pausing before them, "to matters of function. Do you require special modifications? Hidden compartments? Enchantments? Weightless lining for ease of movement? Reinforced stitching for impact resistance?"
Caspian didn't hesitate. "Fireproof."
Alfonse raised a brow, then offered a quiet, approving hum. "Prudent."
Andrew turned to Caspian, one brow lifted. "Expecting fire?"
Camael chuckled. "What kind of event are we attending, exactly?"
Caspian's expression remained unchanged. "Just in case."
Alfonse gave a faint smile. "A gentleman who prepares for the worst tends to avoid it."
He walked to a side table and retrieved a small silver lighter. With a flick of his fingers, he ignited a narrow flame and swept it carefully across the sleeve of Caspian's suit. The flame licked the fabric, then slid harmlessly off. The material shimmered briefly, then settled again.
"There. Resistant to flame, smoke, and heat. I would still advise against immersion in magma, but the occasional blaze will not ruin your evening."
Caspian gave a quiet nod. "Thank you."
"Of course," Alfonse replied. He turned to Andrew and Camael. "Any adjustments?"
Andrew shook his head. "No changes. I prefer unembellished function."
Camael hesitated. He looked again at the black suit—now perfectly tailored and dignified. Then he glanced at his own reflection in the mirrored column near the window. The effect was jarring.
"I can't wear this," he said.
Alfonse studied him thoughtfully. "What troubles you?"
"I look like a child in someone else's clothes."
Andrew glanced at him sidelong. "You've looked like that for years."
Camael glared. "You could've fixed it."
"You never asked," Andrew replied evenly.
Camael threw his arms wide. "I'm asking now."
Andrew sighed. He set down his teacup and raised one hand. With a quiet murmur and a brief flick of light, a wave of magic passed over Camael.
It began slowly—a stretching of limbs, a straightening of the spine. His face retained its youthfulness but sharpened at the edges, more angular now, with a stronger jaw. His shoulders broadened; his voice deepened slightly. He grew several inches taller, and his posture adjusted with the newfound height.
He looked down at his hands, then at the room around him, eyes wide.
"I can see the top shelf," he whispered.
Andrew gave a mild shrug. "You'll have to get used to bumping into doorframes."
Camael looked into the mirror again, the transformation reflected back at him. The suit now fit perfectly—no longer overwhelming, but clean and commanding. He adjusted the cuffs with a grin.
"Better," he said.
Alfonse approached once more and raised his wand. He made a final series of precise movements, tracing glowing runes in the air. The symbols hovered, then sank into the suits. The fabric shimmered as enchantments sealed themselves within.
"There," he said. "Threaded with minor protections, subtle reinforcement, and the requested fire resistance. They will withstand most unintended misfortunes."
He stepped back, arms folded. "You are dressed for the occasion."
The three of them stood before their suits, the moment briefly silent.
Andrew lifted his own from the mannequin, folding it with the careful familiarity of someone long used to fine tailoring. Camael took his with open pride, tracing the lines along the lapels. Caspian handled his with care, his fingertips brushing the fabric as though expecting it to vanish.
Alfonse, now at the door, paused to glance back. "The Blackwood Ball is a strange and glittering thing. You'll find the masks are real, and the smiles are not. But you, at least, will look the part."
Caspian gave the faintest smile. "Thank you."
"And one last thing," Alfonse added as the door opened behind him. "If you must bleed, try not to do so on my work. The stains are quite hard to remove."