The sun had shifted higher in the sky by the time Alinda and Nyra stepped back into the noise of Lions Gate. The street was alive with the clang of the smith's hammer, the cries of vendors hawking roasted meats and sweet fruit, the murmur of townsfolk gossiping in doorways. For a moment, it almost felt ordinary until Nyra glanced at the woman walking beside her.
Alinda moved with that same unhurried grace she always carried, as though the crowd parted for her without realizing it. Her crimson eyes scanned the street lazily but there was a flicker of thought there, sharp and distant, that Nyra had learned to be wary of.
"So," Nyra said, breaking the silence, "do we head to Jason's inn now?" Her tone was practical, though faintly edged. She was still turning over what had just unfolded in the Violet Measure.
Alinda's lips curved faintly at the corner but she shook her head. "Not yet."
Nyra frowned, her crimson eyes narrowing. "Not yet? Why?"
Alinda smirked, her crimson eyes gleaming as she brushed back a strand of black hair. "Jason's can wait. I'd rather see how our towering friend is getting along with his new… seamstresses."
Nyra blinked at her, a brow lifting. "You mean Merek and Joren?"
Alinda chuckled, low and rich, her armor catching the sun in faint runic glimmers. "Of course. I'm curious how long it takes before one of them cracks under the pressure of trying to dress a man built like a fortress wall." She tilted her head, amusement tugging at her lips. "Besides, Thal is more important than ale and idle chatter."
Nyra frowned, though not with disagreement. Her thoughts tugged elsewhere, back to the Kruu child with eyes like Alinda's, back to the way Sera had nearly begged them not to tell. "You just want to see if the tailor still has all his fingers."
Alinda chuckled, the sound low and amused. "But I'm curious." Putting a hand on her lip's "Watching him stuffed into a tailor's shop now that might be worth seeing."
Nyra sighed, though her lips threatened to twitch despite herself. "You really don't make anything simple, do you?"
"Wouldn't know how," Alinda said with a sly smirk, her crimson eyes glinting. She glanced ahead, already angling toward the square where the tailor and blacksmith worked side by side. "Come. Let's see if the giant's patience has run dry, or if Merek and Joren have managed the impossible."
Nyra followed, her mind restless but her steps steady. She wouldn't admit it aloud but a small part of her shared the curiosity. Thal may have faced horrors beyond reckoning but there was something almost comical about imagining him being measured for cloth like any other man.
And if Alinda's knowing smirk was any indication, she was counting on exactly that.
Alinda and Nyra reached the tailor's shop first but the wooden sign hanging on its chain had been flipped to Closed. The curtains were drawn, and the stillness inside suggested no one would answer even if they knocked.
Nyra frowned, arms crossing. "Strange. He doesn't strike me as the type to turn away business in the middle of the day."
Alinda tilted her head, crimson eyes narrowing with a faint, knowing smile. "Maybe he's not here." She gestured lightly with a finger toward the neighbouring building. "If I had to guess, they've moved next door. Joren's forge would have the roof for it. Taller beams, open air. The giant wouldn't have to crawl around like a rat in a box."
Nyra gave her a sidelong look. "You talk like you've been here before."
Alinda smirked, unbothered. "I know the type. Tailors like Merek don't enjoy giants bending through their doorframes but blacksmiths? They're used to the impossible. They thrive on it."
They crossed to Joren's side, where the air was hotter, tinged with the metallic tang of iron and soot. Unlike the modest tailor's shop, Joren's forge had no door and no front wall just a yawning open space that spilled heat and noise into the street. Great beams arched overhead, holding a roof blackened with smoke, while racks of half-finished weapons and armor lined the walls.
Alinda slowed, her smile curling wider as she tipped her head toward the entrance. "Shall we peek?"
Nyra hesitated, then leaned slightly, poking her head past the frame. The forge floor stretched wide before them, lit by the dull orange glow of the hearth. Sparks flew from the anvil where Joren worked, hammer ringing like a drumbeat against the steel.
And there, rising head and shoulders above everything else, stood Thal. The giant's golden eyes caught the glow of the forge fire, and even in stillness he looked more like a statue carved of living stone than a man. Beside him, Merek paced in exasperation, gesturing at swaths of cloth draped over a stool while muttering complaints loud enough to rival the hammer's rhythm.
Alinda leaned her head past Nyra's shoulder, her crimson eyes gleaming with mirth. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
Inside the forge, the scene was almost absurd.
Merek, sleeves rolled up, stood at Thal's side with a length of twine and a small chalk stick. His face was red with effort, muttering curses under his breath as he wrestled with the sheer logistics of it all. A short ladder leaned against Thal's leg, wobbling every time the tailor clambered up to reach the higher points of his frame.
"Shoulder span " Merek grunted, pressing the twine across Thal's broad back, " gods above, it's like measuring a wall. Mark this down, Joren."
Across the forge, Joren sat at a workbench with a thick sheet of parchment spread out in front of him. His massive hand held a piece of charcoal, jotting down the numbers as quickly as his brother rattled them off. Next to the figures, he sketched a rough outline of Thal's towering form, each measurement tagged along the margins. His brows were furrowed in concentration, though every so often he glanced up with an expression caught between disbelief and admiration.
"Leg length by the hammer, I need more twine," Merek huffed, sliding back down the ladder with a scowl. He tugged on the coil, muttering about having to knot extra lengths together. "This isn't a man, it's a bloody siege tower. Hold still, will you?"
Thal hadn't moved a muscle. He stood tall and calm in the forge's glow, golden eyes watching the brothers work with the patience of stone. Even when Merek braced a hand against his side to steady the line, or when the ladder thudded awkwardly against his hip, Thal remained unbothered.
"Mark this too," Merek barked, stretching the twine across Thal's chest. "If I don't reinforce the seams here, it'll tear the first time he breathes too deep."
"Got it," Joren muttered, scratching quick notes along the edge of the sketch. His dark eyes flicked up again, catching the faint shimmer of sweat on his brother's brow. "You'll need steel thread. Normal cloth won't last."
"I know what I'll need," Merek snapped, though the edge in his voice was blunted by fatigue. He shoved the chalk behind his ear, scowling at the parchment. "This is madness, Joren. Absolute madness but saints damn me, it'll be my finest work."
Joren's lips twitched faintly, as if fighting a smile. "That it will."
From the doorway, Nyra watched, brow arched, while Alinda smirked beside her, crimson eyes sparkling at the ridiculous yet impressive sight of two craftsmen struggling to map out the giant.
Nyra leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed as she watched the spectacle unfold. Merek clambering up and down the ladder, muttering curses every time the twine slipped or the chalk smeared, while Joren dutifully scribbled notes and sketches with the stoicism of a man chiseling scripture and through it all, Thal stood as immovable as a mountain, letting them fuss and fumble around him without so much as a sigh.
Nyra's lips twitched despite herself. It was amusing seeing the great, golden-eyed giant treated like some oversized mannequin. A laugh threatened in her throat but she caught it before it escaped.
Then she glanced sideways at Alinda.
The other woman wasn't simply watching. She was devouring the scene with her eyes, crimson gaze trailing across Thal's immense frame in a way that was anything but subtle. Her smirk had curved into something languid, her posture leaning just a little too casually against the frame, arms folded under her chest as if to deliberately draw attention.
Nyra groaned inwardly and rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick. "Gods," she muttered under her breath.
Alinda caught the look, her smirk widening, and without shame she tilted her head toward Nyra. "What?" she whispered, feigning innocence, though her crimson eyes gleamed with unmistakable mischief. "Can't a woman appreciate good… proportions?"
Nyra pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something sharp in her own tongue before fixing her gaze firmly back on Merek, who was now struggling to measure the circumference of Thal's thigh with two lengths of twine knotted together.
Alinda chuckled softly at the reaction, clearly delighted, while Thal calm, unreadable as ever remained oblivious to the undercurrent playing out at the edge of the forge.
Merek muttered furiously as he tried to wrangle his twine around Thal's arm, the ladder creaking as he leaned dangerously to one side. "By the saints, do you know how hard it is to measure a man who's built like a fortress? Shoulders wider than a doorway Joren, you'd better be writing this down before I forget!"
Joren's charcoal scratched steadily across the parchment, adding annotations beside the sketch. He didn't even glance up. "Wider than a doorway. Noted."
From the doorway, Nyra shook her head, her lips quirking despite herself. It was ridiculous, watching the two brothers treating Thal like some uncooperative piece of architecture. Yet her amusement froze when she caught sight of Alinda beside her.
Alinda wasn't laughing the same way. Her crimson eyes roved over Thal's frame with far less innocence, lingering openly on the breadth of his shoulders, the span of his chest, the powerful thickness of his thighs as Merek struggled to circle them with twine. A smirk curved slowly across her lips, too deliberate to be mistaken for casual humour.
Nyra groaned inwardly, already dreading what was about to come.
And sure enough, Alinda leaned closer, her voice a low purr meant just for Nyra's ears. "Mm. Shoulders like that could carry the whole city if he wanted… thighs built like stone pillars…" Her smirk widened, devilry flashing in her eyes. "But gods above, Nyra that ass? Tell me it wouldn't break the world."
Nyra's composure shattered. A sharp, startled laugh escaped before she could choke it down, and she immediately covered it with a hand over her mouth. Her other hand lashed out instinctively, smacking Alinda at her side not hard but enough to jolt the woman with a playful rebuke.
"You're insufferable," Nyra hissed, crimson eyes narrowed in exasperation. Her cheeks burned with the effort to suppress the rest of her laughter, though the twitch at the corners of her lips betrayed her.
Alinda chuckled, thoroughly pleased with herself, leaning into the hit like it was an indulgence rather than punishment. "Oh, come now," she teased, eyes still sparkling as they flicked back to Thal. "Even you can't deny the craftsmanship."
Nyra rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt but the heat in her cheeks lingered, and the laughter she'd tried to bury still bubbled at the edges of her chest.
Merek's voice broke through again, oblivious to their whispered exchange. "For gods' sake, Joren, I'll need a sailmaker's cloth to cover this man! Ordinary bolts won't cut it!"
Alinda's smirk deepened at that, murmuring under her breath just loud enough for Nyra to hear, "A sailmaker, hm? Appropriate. He'd need a hull to match."
Nyra groaned, shaking her head but the laugh she tried to hide still escaped in a short, breathless burst.
Thal shifted slightly, the ladder wobbling as Merek clung to his shoulder with a curse. The giant's golden eyes slid toward the forge's wide entrance, calm and steady as ever, though there was the faintest flicker of something else a recognition of voices carried in whispers. His gaze landed on Nyra and Alinda peeking in.
"Nyra. Alinda," he said, his voice deep, low, steady as stone. A simple greeting but it filled the forge like a hammer blow against an anvil.
Nyra froze, crimson eyes widening. Heat prickled across her face as she realized he must have heard at least some of what Alinda had said. She cleared her throat, trying to smother the remnants of laughter. "Thal," she managed, her tone more composed than she felt.
Alinda, however, didn't even attempt to hide her smile. She gave a lazy wave, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe as though she hadn't been caught making her commentary. "Looking magnificent as always," she purred, her crimson eyes glinting with wicked humour.
Merek, still balanced precariously, finally followed Thal's gaze. His eyes lit with recognition and, predictably, a complaint. "Gods above, you're all here now? As if I didn't have enough of a challenge!" He scrambled down the ladder, brushing chalk dust off his fingers, and gave a curt nod. "Well, don't just stand there gawking. Come in come in, though try not to get in my way."
Joren looked up from his sketchbook, his charcoal still poised above the parchment. Unlike his brother, his greeting was steadier, more measured. "Ah, good timing. You'll want to see this." His gaze flicked to Thal again, and though his face remained composed, there was the faintest edge of awe lingering in his eyes.
The forge buzzed again with noise the hiss of the bellows, the clang of iron and now the quiet undercurrent of familiar company settling into the chaos. Nyra straightened her shoulders, stepping forward at last, while Alinda lingered with that sly smile that promised she wasn't done having her fun.
Thal let the silence stretch a beat longer, his golden eyes steady on the two women at the doorway. Then, with the faintest huff of breath through his nose, he rolled his eyes. The motion was subtle but on a face as stoic as his, it spoke volumes.
Nyra caught it immediately. Her lips pressed together, fighting back another laugh, because she knew he had heard Alinda's shameless commentary. The giant wasn't going to call her on it not aloud but the eye-roll was enough to betray that he knew exactly what was running through her mind.
Alinda's smirk only deepened, her crimson gaze locking onto Thal with a spark of mischief. "Ah, see? He does have a sense of humour," she teased, undeterred. "Rolling his eyes at me like some weary husband."
Thal exhaled slowly, his massive shoulders shifting as Merek tried to loop twine around him again. "You think too loudly," he rumbled, voice carrying more weight than sharpness.
That only made Alinda chuckle, tilting her head with mock innocence. "And you listen too well."
Nyra groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Lord save me…" she muttered under her breath, though the corners of her mouth still betrayed the faintest twitch of amusement.
Merek, oblivious to the undercurrent, waved his chalk stick impatiently. "Quiet, all of you! If he so much as twitches while I'm balancing up here, I'll end up in the forge fire!"
Joren gave a low grunt of agreement, though his lips tugged into the faintest smile as he resumed sketching.
Through it all, Thal stood unbothered, golden eyes steady, the faintest curl of dry humour still lingering at their edges. He didn't need to say more his eye-roll had already spoken for him.
The last of the chalk marks were made, and Joren finally set down his charcoal, flexing his broad fingers as if they ached from the sheer amount of notes he'd been forced to scribble. Merek climbed down from the ladder with a groan, sweat glistening on his brow, his expression a mix of triumph and exhaustion.
"There," the tailor declared, snapping the twine coil around his hand. "Measurements done. Saints above, I'll need every scrap of cloth in the market to cover you." He paused, eyeing Thal's lone kilt of tattered cloak with open disdain. "And until then… you can't keep standing around half-naked in my forge."
He rummaged around in a chest near the wall and came up with a folded garment, shaking it out. A plain robe, undyed and simple, clearly not made for a man of Thal's build but it was something. "Here. It's crude but better than what you've got on."
Nyra folded her arms, one brow arched as she looked Thal up and down. "About time," she said bluntly. "Walking around the city in nothing but scraps was starting to look less like intimidation and more like desperation."
Alinda, standing beside her, leaned lazily against the doorframe with her arms crossed, crimson eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "Speak for yourself," she purred, smirking at the sight of Thal's bare shoulders gleaming in the firelight. "I rather liked the view."
Thal, as always, offered no retort. He accepted the robe without comment, his massive hands dwarfing the garment as if it were meant for a child. He stepped behind the forge, out of view of the women, though even crouching, his head and shoulders still rose above the screen of tools and half-finished armor.
There was the sound of cloth shifting, the faint rustle of fabric stretching to its limit, and then a long, drawn-out exhale that carried more frustration than any words might have.
When Thal stepped back into view, the reason became clear.
The robe hung lopsided across his vast frame, straining at the shoulders, sleeves riding high against his forearms and worst of all the hem only reached a little past his waist, leaving the battered loincloth beneath fully visible. It looked less like a proper garment and more like an ill-fitted tunic clinging for dear life.
Nyra's lips twitched, her hand rising to cover her mouth as she failed to hide the grin breaking across her face. "Gods… it barely covers you," she muttered, biting back laughter.
Alinda's smirk bloomed into a wicked grin, her crimson eyes alight as she gave Thal a slow, exaggerated once-over. "Oh, this is delightful," she said, her voice dripping with mock admiration. "A mountain dressed in a child's Sunday best and that loincloth still stealing the show? Perfection."
Merek grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, it wasn't made for him! It was all I had that could be thrown over those damn shoulders."
Joren, still at his bench, let out a low grunt, though there was the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. "At least it proves what we already knew. Nothing off the rack will ever fit him."
Thal's golden eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he adjusted the robe that clung too tightly across his chest. He didn't speak but the faint roll of his shoulders spoke his irritation well enough. He looked less like a warrior and more like a giant who'd been forced into costume by mischievous children.
Alinda chuckled under her breath, leaning close to Nyra as she murmured, "Worth every second we came here."
Nyra shook her head, a reluctant laugh escaping her despite herself, while Thal endured the amusement in silence, the ill-fitting robe only making his frustration all the more visible.
Merek let out a long groan, dragging a hand down his face as though the sight of Thal stuffed into the too-small robe offended his very soul as a craftsman. "Saints preserve me, that's an abomination," he muttered. "Take it off now. I'll not have anyone saying I put you in that disaster."
Thal exhaled, slow and heavy but obeyed without fuss. The seams creaked in protest as he pulled the robe over his head, handing the sorry excuse for clothing back to the tailor. Standing there once more in nothing but his tattered loincloth, he was as unbothered as if modesty had never been a concept he'd been taught.
Merek was already pacing, muttering to himself as his fingers fidgeted with the fabric. "Too tight in the chest… useless sleeves… wasted hem length…" Then, with sudden conviction, he snapped his fingers and looked up at his brother. "I can work with this. A kilt. Wide, free movement, proper weight. Add some flare to it so he doesn't look like some back-alley gladiator. Yes yes, that'll do."
He shoved the garment onto his worktable, scissors flashing as he hacked away at the sleeves and upper half. Chalk marks bloomed across the cloth, his needle flying with surprising speed for a man so gruff. White thread gleamed as it looped in precise, practiced stitches, binding new seams with stubborn strength. Occasionally he glanced at Thal, measuring by eye alone, grunting when the giant's sheer scale defied even his instincts.
The forge filled with the rhythm of creation the snip of shears, the scrape of chalk, the steady tug-tug-tug of thread being pulled taut. Joren paused his sketching to watch, his arms folded, dark eyes following his brother's work with grudging approval.
At last, Merek held it up with both arms, now no longer a robe at all but a broad, flowing kilt dyed a deep crimson, trimmed with careful white stitching that caught the forge light. The fabric was heavier, reinforced along the waist, with a deliberate slit running down the side to ensure Thal's movement wouldn't be hindered.
"Here," Merek said, thrusting it forward like an offering. "Try this and if it tears, I'll eat my shears."
Thal took the garment without ceremony and stepped behind the forge again. This time, when he emerged, the difference was striking. The kilt reached all the way down to his ankles, moving with weight and purpose rather than clinging awkwardly. The slit gave it freedom to sway as he shifted his stance, and the crimson hue with white stitching lent a stark, almost regal contrast against his bare chest and the golden glow of his eyes.
Nyra gave a low whistle, arms crossed. "Better. Much better. About time you looked less like a vagrant."
Alinda tilted her head, her smirk curling wickedly as her crimson eyes drank in the sight. "Mmm. Still half-naked, though. Which, if you ask me, is an improvement."
Thal rolled his eyes again but said nothing, the faintest grunt his only response as the forge's glow reflected off the red and white of his new makeshift kilt.
Merek crossed his arms, chin raised with reluctant pride. "That'll hold until I finish the real thing and damned if it doesn't look better than I expected."
Even Joren allowed himself a faint nod. "A fine start."
Thal ran a hand across the fabric, testing the weight as it swayed around his legs. It was different from the ragged scraps he'd been wearing but not so different that it felt unnatural. For a moment, he almost seemed thoughtful, his golden eyes lowering as he shifted his stance.
"Feels nice," he said finally, voice low, steady. "Still gives the freedom I'm used to." His gaze flicked down to the stitching, the faintest glimmer of approval in his expression. "Thank you."
Merek, arms folded and chin tipped up, allowed himself the ghost of a smug grin. "Well, someone has taste, then." But after a moment, curiosity got the better of him. "Though I have to ask why the hells did you wear that loincloth to begin with? A man like you should've been dressed in half a dozen hides at least. What possessed you to wander about like that?"
For a long beat, Thal didn't answer. He seemed to weigh the question in silence, his eyes catching the firelight from the forge as though dredging up a memory best left buried. At last, his voice came slow, deliberate.
"I didn't always," he said. "There was a time I wore furs. Covered me fully. Heavy, warm. A cloak that " His jaw tightened, the words faltering as if caught on a ledge he refused to cross. His gaze flicked away, golden eyes narrowing faintly. "…A cloak I once carried."
The pause lingered, heavier than the forge's heat. Nyra tilted her head slightly but she didn't push. Alinda, however, watched him with sharp curiosity, her crimson gaze cutting into the cracks of what he hadn't said.
Thal exhaled slowly through his nose, finishing the thought in another direction. "Then it burned. All of it. Cloak, furs everything. Fire left me with nothing but char and ash."
Nyra's eyes softened, a flicker of memory pulling her back. She knew what he was speaking of the fight with the Threshen, nearly a week ago. The monstrous thing had taken all of them to bring down, and Thal had clung to it like a living anchor while Luken's fire had reduced it to cinders. When the smoke cleared, Thal had stood alive but the furs that had once marked him were gone, burned away until only the blackened scrap remained.
"It was the fire," Thal said, his voice quieter now. "That's why I wear what I do. All that remained was the cloak, singed and ruined. Better that than nothing."
For the first time since he'd spoken, he allowed the faintest flicker of humour to crease the edge of his mouth. "Better that than naked."
The line carried with it a dry, understated weight. Not quite a joke, not quite solemnity just Thal, blunt and matter-of-fact.
Merek huffed, half a laugh, half disbelief. "Saints, you'd really walk the streets bare if you had to, wouldn't you?"
Thal's golden eyes met his, unflinching. "If it was easier, yes."
That earned a small laugh from Alinda, who shook her head, crimson eyes gleaming with mirth. "And here I thought you had no sense of humour. Turns out you've been saving it for the right moment."
Nyra rolled her eyes but the small curve at her lips betrayed the hint of a smile. For just a heartbeat, the air in the forge felt lighter, even with the memory of fire still smouldering in Thal's words.
The forge settled into a quieter rhythm after Thal's dry joke. Heat thrummed from the hearth sparks rang softly as Joren banked the coals. Chalk dust still smudged the floor where Merek had paced, and the red kilt new seams bright with white thread moved cleanly around Thal's ankles when he shifted his weight.
Merek hooked the scissors on a nail and stepped back in front of him, studying the fall of the cloth like a general reviewing a line. "All right," he said, more to himself than anyone. "Split hem holds. Weight's good. Stitch won't bite under stride." He glanced up. "Any binding at the hip?"
Thal rolled one shoulder, tested a long step, then another. "No. Free."
"Good." Merek's mouth twitched, a craftsman's almost-smile. "I'll lay a sailmaker's seam along the slit to keep it from creeping and I'll line the belt with soft leather so you don't chafe." He flicked a look at Nyra and Alinda, as if daring a joke.
Alinda's crimson eyes danced. "Saints forbid the giant be uncomfortable."
Nyra elbowed her but the corner of her mouth had softened.
Joren wiped his hands on his apron and came over with the parchment sketch. It was a rough silhouette of a colossus, measurements marching along the margins in blunt charcoal. "Boots," he said, practical as an anvil. "Nothing ornate. You want ground-feel or height?"
"Ground," Thal said without thinking.
Joren nodded once, unsurprised. He dragged a shallow tray of soot with his foot and set a wide sheet beside it. "Step. I need your print."
Thal placed a bare foot into the soot and then onto the parchment. The mark he left drew a low whistle from Merek.
"That's not a foot," the tailor muttered. "That's a ferry."
Alinda's smirk sharpened. "Build him prow-first, Joren."
"Ha," Joren said but there was approval in his eyes as he set a thick charcoal line around the print. "Double-layer sole. Iron-shod toes. Leather like armor for the uppers. I'll stitch a hinge at the ankle keep your flex." He glanced up. "You'll carry a lot of the city on those. Best if the city doesn't carry you."
Thal inclined his head. "Thank you."
Merek circled again, tugging the kilt here, smoothing it there. "Cloak'll be last," he said, tone careful. "Not the heavy kind you lost " He stopped himself, then went on more gently. "We'll make you something that sits right on the shoulders, cuts weather and ash, doesn't tangle a blade arm."
Thal's gaze slid past him to the glow of the fire, a small stillness touching his features. "Light," he said. "No hood."
"Understood," Merek replied, quiet for once. He tapped his chalk against his thumb. "And if you want fur along the collar later, we'll… see what the markets yield." He didn't look up when he said it, which was a kindness.
Nyra watched the exchange without speaking. She'd seen Thal take blows that would fell a house and not flinch the single, clipped word told her more than any wound. Her arms folded but the posture had shifted less guard, more guard-ian.
Alinda, sensing the seam of the moment, slid in with a breeziness that disguised its mercy. "Color," she said, tapping the kilt's edge. "The red suits him." Her smile tilted. "And hides blood better than white."
Merek grunted. "Practical and dramatic. Fine choice."
"Trim stays white," Joren added. "You'll want people to see you coming."
"They do," Thal said, deadpan. It drew a snort from Merek he tried and failed to turn into a cough.
"Belting," Merek went on briskly. "One wide, one narrow, crisscross, with keepers for knife and pouch. You carry… what?" He caught himself before the list wandered into weapons and secrets. "Never mind bring it all when you return I'll fit the hang."
Thal nodded. "Not much." A pause. "Enough."
Alinda's gaze roved shamelessly again but the heat in it had softened. "And perhaps a mantle clasp that won't snap when a certain someone decides to wrestle monsters on fire."
"Working on it," Joren said, already sketching two opposed rings, a hidden latch, a bar that would not shear. "Steel core. You'd have to tear it off."
"Please don't test that," Merek muttered.
Thal's mouth gave the barest tilt. "I'll try."
They fell, for a time, into the ordinary music of making: Merek at his bench, testing threads against his fingers Joren marking measurements with the patient gravity of a mason laying a cornerstone. The forge breathed bellows, ember, the small rain of sparks and the giant's shadow stretched across it all as if it had always belonged there.
"This will do for now," Merek said at last, stepping back from the red kilt with a grudging pride. "You look less like trouble and more like intent."
Nyra's chin rose. "He always looked like intent."
Alinda bumped her with a hip, eyes bright. "Now he looks like intent with taste."
Joren slid the footprint print to dry and rapped his knuckles on the bench. "Two days for the boots' first fit. Longer if the leather fights me. The cloak and tunic will follow," he nodded toward Merek, "assuming our poet of cloth isn't distracted by noble commissions."
Merek huffed. "Let a duke try to cut my line I'll measure his pride and find it short." His gaze returned to Thal, steady. "We'll make it right."
Thal looked between them smith, tailor, two men who had set down judgment and taken up work. He touched the kilt once more, testing weight and swing, then gave a small, honest nod. "You already have."
Alinda let out a satisfied little hum. "See? Clothed and only partially scandalous."
Nyra groaned but she was smiling when she did it. The forge's heat curled around them all, and for a rare, brief span, even Lions Gate felt warm.