The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 10 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 11; Despair
The door slammed open again.
Madame Serelise stood there, nostrils flared, chalk dust in her hair, and her tape measure rolled like a weapon of divine punishment.
“You get one more chance,” she growled, eyes twitching. “Stay. Naked. Mouths. Shut. Or I will sew your next dresses out of burlap and shame.”
Elvina, arms crossed across her bare chest, arched a brow. “That sounds like my childhood.”
Tarasque leaned casually against the wall, entirely unbothered by her nudity. “She’s bluffing,” she said sweetly. “You can’t threaten artists with ugly fabric. That’s like telling a bird it’ll have to fly with style.”
Serelise stomped into the room, snapping the tape taut with the sound of a hangman's rope. “If I hear one more innuendo—just one—I will take your bust measurements with cold iron calipers and a drinking horn.”
Elvina shrugged. “That’s still less invasive than the elven healers.”
Tarasque tilted her head. “Cold iron, though? Risky. I’d have to charge extra for kink-based tailoring.”
The tailor twitched so hard the chalk dropped from her hand again.
“I have tailored kings,” she snapped. “I have stitched battle robes soaked in troll blood. I once hemmed a bard’s trousers while his summoned harem fought over the thread. I do not have time for your tit-based comedy routine!”
“Oh, she said it,” Elvina muttered, impressed.
Tarasque grinned. “'Tit-based comedy routine.' That’s going on my gravestone.”
“You’d better hope it is,” Serelise growled, stepping in close, now face-to-face with Tarasque. “Because the next time your mouth opens with something clever, I’ll sew it shut and use your ribs as boning for a corset.”
The room fell quiet.
Tarasque’s smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened. Like teeth.
With deliberate calm, she lifted her arm and turned it outward. A shimmer rolled over her skin, and in a blink, an opal white glow, revealed a coiling dragon mark just above her wrist, glowing faintly beneath the surface like embers under skin.
The room seemed to darken.
Elvina straightened.
Serelise froze.
Tarasque’s voice was soft now, still velvet, but velvet pulled over steel.
“I’m being very generous right now, tailor. Because I like your sarcasm. And because you have strong opinions about cleavage and embroidery. But speak to me like that again…”
The mark flickered, briefly, like a serpent twitching in its sleep.
“…and you’ll learn what kind of fire sleeps beneath this skin.”
Serelise stared, pale, mouth partially open.
Then she cleared her throat and, without another word, turned back to her chalkboard.
A long silence passed.
Finally, Elvina leaned sideways and whispered to Tarasque, “That’s not fair. You pulled out your dragon card in the middle of a seduction competition.”
“I warned you,” Tarasque whispered back. “I play dirty.”
Elvina smirked. “So do I. But I don’t breathe fire. I just punch.”
The tailor made no comment, just resumed her measurements with efficiency and trembling hands.
Tarasque winked at Elvina. “I think we won.”
Elvina nodded. “And I think we’re getting the best-fitted dresses in the kingdom.”
The measuring was finally over, barely.
Serelise, now visibly aged by several years and clinging to her composure like a lifeline, rolled out a long strip of embroidered velvet across the central table and unceremoniously dumped a chaotic pile of fabric swatches onto it.
“Pick,” she snapped. “Colour, texture, weave. Something you can survive in without seducing half the court or assassinating them.”
Elvina raised a brow. “So… no crimson, then?”
Tarasque knelt beside the table, still completely nude and utterly unbothered, as she sifted through the samples like they were treasure.
“Ooh, Elvina,” she cooed, holding up a sheer black silk. “You in this would be deadly. Like a blade under moonlight.”
Elvina, standing at her full height, arms lazily crossed across her chest, cocked her head. “And you in this one,” she flicked a swatch of emerald velvet at Tarasque “would look like temptation dipped in sin and poor judgment.”
Tarasque pressed it against her chest with mock modesty. “Do you think it brings out the freckles or just my inner homewrecker?”
“Depends,” Elvina muttered. “You planning on sitting, or just bending over things all night?”
“Please do not describe my gowns in verbs,” Serelise said flatly, head in her hands.
Tarasque gasped. “How dare you limit my artistry.”
Elvina plucked a swatch of blood-red brocade and waved it dramatically. “This looks like the aftermath of a royal scandal.”
“Oh yes,” Tarasque smirked, “you wear that, and someone’s definitely getting stabbed. Or laid. Possibly both.”
“Preferably in that order,” Elvina muttered. “With plausible deniability.”
Serelise didn’t look up. “If either of you says the word ‘thigh slit,’ I’m sewing you into burlap sacks and calling it couture.”
Tarasque grinned and held up a pale gold satin. “This one feels like betrayal. I like it.”
Elvina narrowed her eyes. “That would wash you out. You’d look like a ghost with unresolved lust.”
“I am a ghost with unresolved lust,” Tarasque shot back, fluttering the fabric over her shoulder. “And I’d like to haunt your wardrobe.”
Elvina snorted. “Haunt mine, and I’m putting you in tartan and ruffles.”
Tarasque gasped, genuinely horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Serelise snapped a ruler on the table. “Enough. Pick your damn fabrics before I set this entire rack on fire and send you both to the party in soot and regret.”
Elvina picked up a dark red silk with subtle black embroidery, holding it to her side thoughtfully. “This one. Feels like something I could kick someone in and still be respected.”
Tarasque nodded approvingly. “Yes, very ‘I killed a duke, but fashionably.’”
“And you?”
Tarasque held up a deep green satin shot with gold. It shimmered like serpent scales under torchlight.
“I want to look like danger wrapped in compliments,” she said. “This does it.”
“Very ‘please don’t trust me, but do buy me a drink,’” Elvina agreed. “Perfect.”
Serelise, scribbling frantically, muttered under her breath, “I don’t get paid enough for naked women arguing about murdering in gala gowns.”
“Correction,” Tarasque said, flicking the green swatch dramatically. “You get paid because of naked women arguing about murdering in gala gowns.”
Elvina smirked. “Welcome to high society.”
Tarasque was holding a deep emerald velvet against her bare skin, admiring how it shimmered like forest shadows and envy. She turned toward the light, checking how it hugged her curves, clearly envisioning herself turning heads at the ball.
Then, almost offhandedly, she said, “You know… I think Neko would like this one.”
Elvina’s head whipped around so fast, the silk swatch in her hand flopped onto the floor.
“Oh?” she said, smirking already. “He would, would he?”
Tarasque, instantly realizing her mistake, tried for casual. “I just mean… he has an appreciation for elegance. Subtlety. Y’know. Taste.”
“Mmhm,” Elvina drawled, arms crossed under her chest. “So when you say ‘Neko would like it,’ do you mean he’d like to see you in it? Or are we talking full ‘rip it off with his teeth while whispering incantations’ territory?”
Tarasque flushed. “Elvina.”
“No, no, I’m just curious,” Elvina continued, sauntering up with mock innocence. “Is it the fabric he’d like? Or how it clings to those delicately weaponized hips of yours?”
Tarasque attempted to defend herself. “I said one thing.”
“One thing too revealing,” Elvina grinned. “Next thing you know, he’s pinning you to the side of the stronghold wall while muttering ‘Akvo’ to cool you off.”
Tarasque pressed the velvet to her face to hide the smirk. “You are insufferable.”
“And you’re flustered. Delicious.” Elvina spun in a circle and picked up a sheer black lace. “Maybe we should stitch little dragons into the hem of your dress. That way he knows exactly where to start peeling.”
“Stop,” Tarasque said, laughing now despite herself.
Elvina wasn’t done. “Or should we add a slit up the side? Easy access, for spell components, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Maybe a little clasp at the chest. One flick and whoops, another elemental eruption.”
Tarasque muttered, “You are going to get struck by lightning.”
“If I do, I’ll tell him you were the cause. Death by thunder and bad behavior.” Elvina winked. “Honestly, I think he’s into that.”
Serelise groaned from behind the table. “You two are still naked, and now you’re dragging a poor man’s virtue into this mess.”
Tarasque finally stood straight, holding the fabric against her as if that would restore her dignity. It didn’t. “Elvina, you’re a menace.”
“Me?” Elvina said innocently. “I’m just trying to support your blossoming love life. Or lust life. I’m not picky.”
Tarasque narrowed her eyes. “One day, I will get you back for this.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Elvina said with a wicked smile. “But until then, let's make sure your dress is easy to undo.”
Chapter 11; Despair
The door slammed open again.
Madame Serelise stood there, nostrils flared, chalk dust in her hair, and her tape measure rolled like a weapon of divine punishment.
“You get one more chance,” she growled, eyes twitching. “Stay. Naked. Mouths. Shut. Or I will sew your next dresses out of burlap and shame.”
Elvina, arms crossed across her bare chest, arched a brow. “That sounds like my childhood.”
Tarasque leaned casually against the wall, entirely unbothered by her nudity. “She’s bluffing,” she said sweetly. “You can’t threaten artists with ugly fabric. That’s like telling a bird it’ll have to fly with style.”
Serelise stomped into the room, snapping the tape taut with the sound of a hangman's rope. “If I hear one more innuendo—just one—I will take your bust measurements with cold iron calipers and a drinking horn.”
Elvina shrugged. “That’s still less invasive than the elven healers.”
Tarasque tilted her head. “Cold iron, though? Risky. I’d have to charge extra for kink-based tailoring.”
The tailor twitched so hard the chalk dropped from her hand again.
“I have tailored kings,” she snapped. “I have stitched battle robes soaked in troll blood. I once hemmed a bard’s trousers while his summoned harem fought over the thread. I do not have time for your tit-based comedy routine!”
“Oh, she said it,” Elvina muttered, impressed.
Tarasque grinned. “'Tit-based comedy routine.' That’s going on my gravestone.”
“You’d better hope it is,” Serelise growled, stepping in close, now face-to-face with Tarasque. “Because the next time your mouth opens with something clever, I’ll sew it shut and use your ribs as boning for a corset.”
The room fell quiet.
Tarasque’s smile didn’t fade, but it sharpened. Like teeth.
With deliberate calm, she lifted her arm and turned it outward. A shimmer rolled over her skin, and in a blink, an opal white glow, revealed a coiling dragon mark just above her wrist, glowing faintly beneath the surface like embers under skin.
The room seemed to darken.
Elvina straightened.
Serelise froze.
Tarasque’s voice was soft now, still velvet, but velvet pulled over steel.
“I’m being very generous right now, tailor. Because I like your sarcasm. And because you have strong opinions about cleavage and embroidery. But speak to me like that again…”
The mark flickered, briefly, like a serpent twitching in its sleep.
“…and you’ll learn what kind of fire sleeps beneath this skin.”
Serelise stared, pale, mouth partially open.
Then she cleared her throat and, without another word, turned back to her chalkboard.
A long silence passed.
Finally, Elvina leaned sideways and whispered to Tarasque, “That’s not fair. You pulled out your dragon card in the middle of a seduction competition.”
“I warned you,” Tarasque whispered back. “I play dirty.”
Elvina smirked. “So do I. But I don’t breathe fire. I just punch.”
The tailor made no comment, just resumed her measurements with efficiency and trembling hands.
Tarasque winked at Elvina. “I think we won.”
Elvina nodded. “And I think we’re getting the best-fitted dresses in the kingdom.”
The measuring was finally over, barely.
Serelise, now visibly aged by several years and clinging to her composure like a lifeline, rolled out a long strip of embroidered velvet across the central table and unceremoniously dumped a chaotic pile of fabric swatches onto it.
“Pick,” she snapped. “Colour, texture, weave. Something you can survive in without seducing half the court or assassinating them.”
Elvina raised a brow. “So… no crimson, then?”
Tarasque knelt beside the table, still completely nude and utterly unbothered, as she sifted through the samples like they were treasure.
“Ooh, Elvina,” she cooed, holding up a sheer black silk. “You in this would be deadly. Like a blade under moonlight.”
Elvina, standing at her full height, arms lazily crossed across her chest, cocked her head. “And you in this one,” she flicked a swatch of emerald velvet at Tarasque “would look like temptation dipped in sin and poor judgment.”
Tarasque pressed it against her chest with mock modesty. “Do you think it brings out the freckles or just my inner homewrecker?”
“Depends,” Elvina muttered. “You planning on sitting, or just bending over things all night?”
“Please do not describe my gowns in verbs,” Serelise said flatly, head in her hands.
Tarasque gasped. “How dare you limit my artistry.”
Elvina plucked a swatch of blood-red brocade and waved it dramatically. “This looks like the aftermath of a royal scandal.”
“Oh yes,” Tarasque smirked, “you wear that, and someone’s definitely getting stabbed. Or laid. Possibly both.”
“Preferably in that order,” Elvina muttered. “With plausible deniability.”
Serelise didn’t look up. “If either of you says the word ‘thigh slit,’ I’m sewing you into burlap sacks and calling it couture.”
Tarasque grinned and held up a pale gold satin. “This one feels like betrayal. I like it.”
Elvina narrowed her eyes. “That would wash you out. You’d look like a ghost with unresolved lust.”
“I am a ghost with unresolved lust,” Tarasque shot back, fluttering the fabric over her shoulder. “And I’d like to haunt your wardrobe.”
Elvina snorted. “Haunt mine, and I’m putting you in tartan and ruffles.”
Tarasque gasped, genuinely horrified. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Serelise snapped a ruler on the table. “Enough. Pick your damn fabrics before I set this entire rack on fire and send you both to the party in soot and regret.”
Elvina picked up a dark red silk with subtle black embroidery, holding it to her side thoughtfully. “This one. Feels like something I could kick someone in and still be respected.”
Tarasque nodded approvingly. “Yes, very ‘I killed a duke, but fashionably.’”
“And you?”
Tarasque held up a deep green satin shot with gold. It shimmered like serpent scales under torchlight.
“I want to look like danger wrapped in compliments,” she said. “This does it.”
“Very ‘please don’t trust me, but do buy me a drink,’” Elvina agreed. “Perfect.”
Serelise, scribbling frantically, muttered under her breath, “I don’t get paid enough for naked women arguing about murdering in gala gowns.”
“Correction,” Tarasque said, flicking the green swatch dramatically. “You get paid because of naked women arguing about murdering in gala gowns.”
Elvina smirked. “Welcome to high society.”
Tarasque was holding a deep emerald velvet against her bare skin, admiring how it shimmered like forest shadows and envy. She turned toward the light, checking how it hugged her curves, clearly envisioning herself turning heads at the ball.
Then, almost offhandedly, she said, “You know… I think Neko would like this one.”
Elvina’s head whipped around so fast, the silk swatch in her hand flopped onto the floor.
“Oh?” she said, smirking already. “He would, would he?”
Tarasque, instantly realizing her mistake, tried for casual. “I just mean… he has an appreciation for elegance. Subtlety. Y’know. Taste.”
“Mmhm,” Elvina drawled, arms crossed under her chest. “So when you say ‘Neko would like it,’ do you mean he’d like to see you in it? Or are we talking full ‘rip it off with his teeth while whispering incantations’ territory?”
Tarasque flushed. “Elvina.”
“No, no, I’m just curious,” Elvina continued, sauntering up with mock innocence. “Is it the fabric he’d like? Or how it clings to those delicately weaponized hips of yours?”
Tarasque attempted to defend herself. “I said one thing.”
“One thing too revealing,” Elvina grinned. “Next thing you know, he’s pinning you to the side of the stronghold wall while muttering ‘Akvo’ to cool you off.”
Tarasque pressed the velvet to her face to hide the smirk. “You are insufferable.”
“And you’re flustered. Delicious.” Elvina spun in a circle and picked up a sheer black lace. “Maybe we should stitch little dragons into the hem of your dress. That way he knows exactly where to start peeling.”
“Stop,” Tarasque said, laughing now despite herself.
Elvina wasn’t done. “Or should we add a slit up the side? Easy access, for spell components, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Maybe a little clasp at the chest. One flick and whoops, another elemental eruption.”
Tarasque muttered, “You are going to get struck by lightning.”
“If I do, I’ll tell him you were the cause. Death by thunder and bad behavior.” Elvina winked. “Honestly, I think he’s into that.”
Serelise groaned from behind the table. “You two are still naked, and now you’re dragging a poor man’s virtue into this mess.”
Tarasque finally stood straight, holding the fabric against her as if that would restore her dignity. It didn’t. “Elvina, you’re a menace.”
“Me?” Elvina said innocently. “I’m just trying to support your blossoming love life. Or lust life. I’m not picky.”
Tarasque narrowed her eyes. “One day, I will get you back for this.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Elvina said with a wicked smile. “But until then, let's make sure your dress is easy to undo.”
