Chapter 27: The Dress-Up Debacle
**IRONFORGE PALACE - GUEST QUARTERS - DAWN**
Morning arrived with the subtle cruelty of sunlight filtering through crystal-embedded stone. Hexia had slept surprisingly well despite the feast's aftermath—dwarven beds were engineered for comfort with the same precision they applied to warfare.
He'd just finished bathing when the knock came.
Still dripping, towel wrapped around his waist, he opened the door without thinking.
Princess Nerissa stood there, violet hair perfectly arranged, royal bearing intact, mouth opening to deliver some diplomatic greeting—
Her brain short-circuited.
Purple eyes went wide. Her face flushed crimson from neck to hairline. Her mouth worked soundlessly, trying to form words that had abandoned her vocabulary entirely.
Because Hexia—the chosen hero, the Swordsman of Rolling Heads, the man who killed without blinking—stood before her wearing nothing but a towel and water droplets.
The scream erupted involuntarily.
"AAAAAHHHHH!"
---
**THE CAVALRY ARRIVES**
Doors flew open down the corridor.
Sirenia emerged from her room, silver hair disheveled, wearing a sleeping robe that had seen better mornings. Her blue eyes were half-lidded with interrupted sleep.
Lhoralaine stumbled out next, blonde hair in complete disarray, still wearing yesterday's training shirt, looking like she'd been wrestling nightmares all night.
They reached Hexia's door simultaneously.
Saw Nerissa frozen mid-scream.
Saw Hexia.
Half-naked. Water still glistening on his skin. Towel riding dangerously low on his hips.
Both women froze.
Lhoralaine's mouth opened. Words tumbled out in a rush, barely coherent: "Oh gods I shouldn't be looking but I am looking and now I'm remembering that time at the river when we were training and he took his shirt off and I thought my heart would explode and this is so much worse because now there's context and feelings and—"
Sirenia wasn't much better. Her face matched Nerissa's crimson hue as memories flooded back: "The first time I saw him like this was after he'd been fighting bandits and monsters and his shirt was torn and I helped him clean the wounds and his chest was right there and I could barely focus on healing because—"
Hexia realized what he'd done.
What he was currently displaying.
His crimson eyes went wide with horror.
He slammed the door.
Unfortunately, that only made things worse.
Three seconds of silence.
Then the door burst open as all three women stormed inside, their embarrassment transforming into determined action.
"Get dressed!" they ordered in perfect unison.
Then—
"Let me help you get dressed properly."
Again in unison.
They turned to glare at each other.
---
**THE GREAT DRESS-UP BATTLE**
"I'll handle his wardrobe," Sirenia declared, moving toward Hexia's travel pack. "I know what diplomatic occasions require."
"He's meeting dwarven royalty," Nerissa countered, already pulling formal attire from a wardrobe that definitely hadn't been there yesterday. "He needs to understand our customs. I should dress him."
"Both of you are wrong," Lhoralaine said, producing clothing from gods-knew-where. "He needs to look approachable but authoritative. I trained with him longest—I know what works."
Hexia stood in the center of his room, still wearing just a towel, watching three women argue over his wardrobe like it was a matter of continental importance.
"This is unnecessary—" he tried.
"QUIET!" they shouted simultaneously.
He quieted.
Sirenia held up a dark blue formal shirt. "This brings out his eyes."
"His eyes are crimson," Nerissa pointed out. "Nothing brings them out except violence. This—" She displayed black formal wear with silver trim. "—matches dwarven aesthetic sensibilities."
"It makes him look like he's attending a funeral," Lhoralaine argued, waving her own selection—a white shirt with dark vest. "This shows he's approachable while maintaining dignity."
"He's not approachable. He's terrifying. We should lean into that."
"He's only terrifying when killing people! Otherwise he's—"
"Empty and beautiful?" Sirenia finished.
"I was going to say 'awkwardly endearing' but that works too."
Hexia tried to interject. "If I could just—"
"No." Nerissa didn't even look at him. "You forfeited decision-making rights when you opened that door half-naked."
"I didn't know you were there!"
"Irrelevant. The damage is done. Now we're fixing it."
"This isn't fixing anything—"
"CLOTHES!" All three shouted, shoving their respective selections at him.
He looked at the three completely different outfits. Then at three women wearing identically stubborn expressions. Then at the door, looking for escape routes.
"Don't...even... think about it," Lhoralaine warned. "We will chase you through the palace in nothing but that towel if necessary."
"That would be worse."
"Exactly. So cooperate."
Hexia sighed—the long-suffering sound of someone who'd learned that arguing with determined women was futile. "Fine. But I'm choosing which outfit."
"No."
"Absolutely not."
"That defeats the purpose."
"Then how—"
"Compromise," Sirenia declared. "We combine elements from all three outfits."
Nerissa's eyes lit up. "The black pants from mine—"
"White shirt from mine—" Lhoralaine added.
"Dark blue vest from mine—" Sirenia continued.
"Silver trim accessories from dwarven tradition—"
"And his own sword because obviously—"
"Perfect!" they agreed simultaneously.
Hexia looked at the Frankenstein's monster of an outfit they'd assembled. "This is going to look ridiculous."
"It's going to look diplomatic," Nerissa corrected.
"You'll be perfectly dressed for meeting Father," Sirenia added.
"And you'll look good enough that other nobles won't immediately try to seduce you," Lhoralaine finished.
"...What?"
"Nothing!"
"Just put the clothes on!"
"Turn around first!"
"Why? We've already seen—"
"TURN AROUND!"
They spun, facing the wall with synchronized precision that suggested this had become a coordinated military operation.
Hexia dressed quickly, fumbling with unfamiliar clasps and buttons designed for people who cared about fashion. The pants fit well—dwarven tailoring was excellent. The shirt was comfortable. The vest was... actually kind of nice.
"Done," he said finally.
They turned.
Stared.
"Oh no," Sirenia whispered.
"He's too attractive," Lhoralaine agreed.
"Father's going to laugh," Nerissa predicted. "This is definitely overkill."
"Then why did you—"
"Because we got competitive and stopped thinking rationally!"
Hexia looked down at himself. The outfit was formal but not ostentatious. Professional but not cold. It actually worked, despite being assembled by committee.
"It's fine," he said carefully.
"It's more than fine," Sirenia muttered. "It's problematic."
"How is my clothing problematic?"
"Because now other women will definitely try to seduce you!"
"That's not—I don't—why would—"
"You're a hero!" Lhoralaine explained, gesturing expressively. "Marked by prophecy! Powerful! Mysterious! And now dressed like you actually care about your appearance instead of just throwing on whatever's clean!"
"I still don't understand the problem."
"The problem is competition!" Nerissa said, then immediately looked horrified that she'd said it out loud.
Silence descended.
All three women stared at each other, realizing simultaneously what they'd revealed.
Hexia processed this with the speed of someone who'd spent years avoiding emotional complexity.
"Oh," he said finally. "Oh. You're all—and I'm—and this is—"
"We should go," Sirenia said quickly. "The audience is in thirty minutes."
"Yes," Lhoralaine agreed too fast. "Shouldn't be late."
"Father hates tardiness," Nerissa added, already moving toward the door.
They fled.
Hexia stood alone in his room, dressed in an outfit assembled by three competitive women who'd accidentally admitted they were competing over him.
"I don't have the emotional capacity for this," he told his reflection.
His reflection offered no solutions.
---
**THE THRONE ROOM - THIRTY MINUTES LATER**
The approach to King Murin's throne room was deliberately intimidating—carved stone corridors wide enough for armies, ceiling murals depicting dwarven victories spanning centuries, and guards positioned at intervals wearing armor that could stop cannonballs.
Hexia walked between Sirenia and Lhoralaine, with Nerissa slightly ahead in her role as princess guiding guests. None of them had mentioned the morning's incident.
Behind them, Durgan and Durin followed, the engineer muttering about weapon improvements while the warrior maintained stoic silence.
"Your companions seem comfortable here," Hexia observed quietly.
"They've lived in the palace since forever, long story," Nerissa explained without turning. "Durgan has workshops on three different levels. Durin trains the royal guard. They're as much family as advisors."
"And the king? How will he react to recruiting you?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure." She glanced back. "Father's protective but practical. If I explain the necessity—the Ancients, the prophecy, the timeline—he'll understand intellectually. Emotionally might be harder."
"Parents usually are," Lhoralaine said quietly.
Sirenia squeezed Hexia's hand briefly. "Just be yourself. Blunt honesty works better than diplomatic dancing with dwarves."
"That's my best personality anyway."
"We know. It's part of your charm."
"I'm not charming."
"You're tragically oblivious to your own appeal, which is weirdly charming."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It doesn't have to make sense. It's true."
The throne room doors opened before them—massive metal constructs that required four guards to move. Beyond lay a space designed to inspire awe and intimidation in equal measure.
The throne itself was carved from a single piece of obsidian, embedded with precious metals that formed dwarven runes glowing with subtle magic. King Murin sat there looking every inch the warrior-king—six feet of compressed power, beard braided with gold and mithril, eyes sharp as the legendary weapons his people forged.
Queen Brunhilde stood beside the throne in full armor, her presence equally commanding. Her assessment of Hexia was immediate and thorough—the look of someone evaluating potential threats and allies simultaneously.
The king's booming laugh filled the space before anyone could speak.
"HAH! Daughter! You didn't mention the boy was pretty enough to cause diplomatic incidents!"
The queen's lips twitched. "Murin, behave."
"I am behaving! I'm complimenting his appearance! Look at that outfit—it looks like three different people dressed him, I'd bet my best hammer on it!"
Nerissa's face flushed. "Father—"
"The silver-haired girl chose the vest, yes? Very diplomatic. The blonde picked the shirt—practical but elegant. And you selected the pants because they meet our court standards!" He grinned wider. "And all three are pretending they're not competing over him!"
Complete silence.
Then Durin's laugh broke through—the deep, genuine sound of a warrior who'd seen too much absurdity to pretend otherwise. "Your Majesty has excellent observation skills!"
"Thank you, Thunderbeared! I try!" Murin leaned forward, studying Hexia directly. "So. You're the Light Hero. The one who killed fifty bandits without breaking a sweat. Who executed a manipulator with surgical precision. Who made my daughter scream this morning by answering a door improperly dressed."
Hexia's face remained carefully blank. "I apologize for the impropriety, Your Majesty. It was unintentional."
"I'm sure it was! Youth and obliviousness go hand in hand!" The king's expression turned more serious. "But enough humor. Let's discuss why you're really here. You want to recruit my daughter for a suicidal quest to prevent apocalypse. Yes?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And her companions—Durgan and Durin—would accompany her?"
"If they choose to come. The choice must be theirs."
"Good answer." Murin stood, his presence filling the room despite his height. "Here's what I know: Nerissa's been having dreams for weeks. Visions of burning continents, dying civilizations, six heroes standing against darkness. She's told me everything—the Ancients, the seals, the timeline."
He descended from the throne, approaching Hexia with measured steps. "And here's what I believe: prophecy is bullshit unless backed by action. You're not special because angels marked you—you're potentially useful because you're willing to act despite not wanting to."
Hexia blinked. "That's... surprisingly pragmatic."
"I'm a king, not a romantic. I deal in reality." Murin stopped directly before Hexia, meeting his crimson eyes without flinching. "My daughter wants to go. Her companions want to go. And I—" His voice caught briefly. "I want her to stay where it's safe. Where I can protect her."
"I understand."
"But safety is an illusion when the world's ending in six years." Murin's hand gripped Hexia's shoulder—the kind of grip that could crush stone if applied with force. "So here's my condition: you protect her. Not as a shield—she's a warrior and doesn't need coddling. But as an ally who understands that losing her would break something in this old dwarf that can't be fixed."
"I'll protect her with my life, Your Majesty. All of them. Every hero, every companion. That's not negotiable."
"Even though you're suicidal?"
The bluntness hit like a hammer.
Hexia's expression flickered—surprise, then resignation. "Nerissa told you."
"She tells me everything eventually. So answer honestly: can a man who wants to die be trusted to keep others alive?"
The throne room held its breath.
Hexia was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady but raw. "I've wanted to die since my first life. Since before I was reincarnated. Since before any of this prophecy nonsense. And yes—that makes me dangerous. Unpredictable. A liability."
He met the king's eyes. "But wanting to die and being willing to let others die aren't the same thing. I'm tired of living yes—but I'm not tired of protecting people who actually want to live. If anything, my death wish makes me a better shield. I have nothing to lose. They have everything."
Murin studied him for several heartbeats. Then smiled—fierce and approving. "That's either the most honest thing I've heard in years or the best manipulation. Can't tell which. But I respect it."
He released Hexia's shoulder and turned to Nerissa. "Daughter. You understand what you're choosing? This isn't adventure—it's almost certain death. Beautiful death, maybe, but death nonetheless."
"I understand, Father." Nerissa's voice was steady. "I've seen the futures. Most end badly. But the ones where we don't try? Those end worse. For everyone."
"And you'll go regardless of my permission?"
"Yes. But I'd prefer your blessing."
"Always the dutiful one." Murin sighed—the sound of a father accepting the inevitable. "Fine. You have my blessing. All three of you—Nerissa, Durgan, Durin. Represent Ironforge well. Try not to die. And if you do die, make it spectacular enough that bards sing about it for centuries."
"WE'LL BLOW UP SOMETHING LEGENDARY!" Durgan shouted enthusiastically.
"That's my boy!"
Queen Brunhilde finally spoke, her voice carrying the kind of authority that made generals stand straighter. "When do you depart?"
"We depart in one week, we still need time to resupply. " Hexia answered. " after that we'll need to reach the other continents. Find the remaining heroes. We have six years before the first Ancient rises—every day counts."
"Then tonight we feast!" Murin declared. "Again! Because proper quests require excessive alcohol and questionable decisions!"
"Father—"
"No arguments! It's traditional! Now go—all of you! Rest, prepare, do whatever heroes do before sailing off to probable doom! Tonight we celebrate! Next week you save the world!"
---
**HEXIA'S QUARTERS - LATE AFTERNOON**
Hexia sat on his balcony, watching Ironforge's evening activities below. Dwarven efficiency made the city a marvel even at rest—lights igniting in perfect sequence, citizens moving with purposeful coordination, the distant sound of smithies cooling for the night.
A knock interrupted his observation.
"Come in."
Nerissa entered, no longer in formal wear but comfortable traveling clothes. She joined him at the railing, violet hair catching the dying sunlight.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For what you told Father. About protecting us."
"I meant it."
"I know. That's what makes it meaningful." She was quiet for a moment. "Can I ask something personal?"
"You can. Doesn't mean I'll answer."
"Fair. Do you actually want to die? Or do you just want to stop hurting?"
The question cut deeper than expected.
Hexia considered his answer carefully. "Originally? I wanted to die. In my first life, on that rooftop—death was the goal. Oblivion. Peace. An end to existing in a world that didn't want me."
"And now?"
"Now it's complicated. The angel's protection spell means suicide isn't an option. So wanting to die becomes pointless—I can't act on it anyway. But wanting to stop hurting?" He looked at his marked hand. "That's constant. The emptiness, the exhaustion, the weight of being chosen for something I never wanted—it's all still there."
"But you're becoming better," Nerissa observed. "Slowly. I can see it. Sirenia and Lhoralaine—they're reaching you."
"They're trying. And sometimes it works. But other times—" He gestured vaguely. "Other times I'm still that man on the rooftop. Just forced to keep walking instead of jumping."
Nerissa absorbed this with the solemnity of someone who understood darkness intimately. "The void shows me things. Futures. Most are terrible. But in a few—very few—we succeed. The Ancients are sealed. The world survives. And you're there, at the end, still alive and surrounded by people who refuse to let you disappear."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It does. But also—" She smiled slightly. "Also kind of beautiful. Being loved despite yourself. Being kept alive by people who care enough to be stubborn about it."
"You've clearly never met my companions."
"I've met them. I like them. Sirenia's fierce. Lhoralaine's earnest. Both are hopelessly, obviously in love with you despite your best efforts to be unlovable."
"I'm not trying to be unlovable."
"Which makes you more lovable. It's frustrating." She turned to face him directly. "For the record? I'm not competing for your romantic attention. I meant what I said yesterday—we're… friends. Allies. But those two? They're absolutely competing. And you need to address that before it becomes tactical liability."
"I don't know how."
"Start with honesty. Tell them what you feel. Even if it's messy. Even if it's complicated. Even if it's 'I care about you both but I'm emotionally damaged and terrified of hurting you.'"
"That's longer than my usual sentences."
"Then practice. Because we're about to spend years traveling together, facing death repeatedly, and emotional complications don't get better with time. They get worse. Especially with romantic tension involved."
"You're very wise for sixteen."
"Void magic gives perspective. Also, I've been watching nobles scheme since I could walk. People aren't subtle about their feelings when you know how to look."
She stood, stretching. "Tonight's feast will be interesting. Father invited Durgan and Durin. Probably invited your companions too. We'll all be there, drinking, celebrating, pretending we're not terrified of tomorrow."
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably. Dwarven feasts get chaotic. Especially when Durgan's involved." She grinned. "Just remember—whatever happens tonight, we're committed. No backing out. We're saving the world together whether we want to or not."
"Inspiring."
"I try."
After she left, Hexia remained on the balcony, thinking about her words. About Sirenia and Lhoralaine. About the conversation that needed to happen but terrified him more than facing Ancients.
Because emotional honesty required vulnerability. And vulnerability meant risk. And risk meant potential pain.
But avoiding it meant hurting them anyway. Just slower. More cruelly.
"I hate feelings," he told the sunset.
The sunset offered no sympathy.
---
**TO BE CONTINUED...**
*Two heroes united. Their companions committed. *
*But tonight? Tonight brings one more feast. One more night of peace before the real journey begins or maybe just maybe fate has a different twist for their journey who knows what the future might hold?*
*And maybe—maybe—a conversation Hexia's been avoiding.*
*If he's brave enough.*
*Which he's not.*
*But he might try anyway.*
*Because that's what heroes do.*
*Even the broken ones.*