Chapter 33: How to Dress Like a Hero and Still Smell Like Trouble
The sun had started to creep into Ashveil with that washed-out late-morning light—the kind of brightness that doesn’t warm a damn thing but still serves to remind you the world keeps spinning, even when you’re about to make some highly questionable decisions in another city.
Sitting on the creaky chair in Marlow’s office, I extended my hand like I was asking for the keys to an empire. In reality, I just wanted a few coins and a halfway decent coat.
Grumbling curses in dialects not even the gods could decipher, Marlow vanished down a hallway and came back minutes later with a neatly folded cloth bundle and a worn leather pouch—heavy enough to be more than decorative. He tossed both at me with the grace of a man feeding a prize pig.
"Don’t ask for shoes. I’ve only got flip-flops."
"You definitely have more shame than fashion sense," I muttered, already getting up to change clothes.
I went upstairs to the guest room with the kind of anxious anticipation you get before seeing a version of yourself in the mirror that might not immediately provoke public disgust.
And, my friends... what a transformation.
The coat was simple, but clean. Dark fabric reinforced at the shoulders, with dull copper clasps and neatly stitched seams. The shirt underneath was gray linen, hole-free—a statistical miracle in my wardrobe. The pants? They had shape. That’s right: shape. Not too baggy, not stitched so tight you’d think a drunk tailor cursed them into existence.
And the most shocking part: the shoes. Okay, borrowed and a size too big, but intact. No holes, no moldy stench, no newspaper jammed in as makeshift insoles.
I looked at my reflection in the dirty windowpane. For the first time in weeks, I almost looked like a person.
"If I saw myself walking down the street," I murmured, adjusting the collar with some light narcissistic pleasure, "I might not even cross to the other side."