CHAPTER 64: THE BLADE IS DRESSED

The steward materialized at their side before Soren had fully processed Lord Callen’s dismissal, his thin frame appearing as if summoned by the word itself.

"Lord Veyr, Master Thorne," the man intoned with practiced deference, "if you would follow me. The dressing chambers have been prepared for tonight’s gathering."

Soren glanced at Veyr, searching for some indication of what this entailed, but the young lord’s expression revealed nothing beyond mild boredom.

The corridor stretched before them, each step carrying them deeper into unfamiliar territory. Servants darted past with increasing frequency, arms laden with silks and silver, the entire household transformed into a war camp preparing for battle.

"Dressing chambers?" Soren finally asked, keeping his voice low.

Veyr’s mouth twitched, a ghost of amusement flickering across his features. "You didn’t think they’d let you attend looking like that, did you?" His gaze flicked dismissively over Soren’s travel-stained attire. "Don’t worry. You’ll endure it, same as everything else."

The steward led them to a junction where the corridor split, gesturing to separate doors on opposite walls. "Lord Veyr, your attendants await in your chambers. Master Thorne, you will be prepared in the east dressing room."

Before Soren could respond, Veyr was already moving toward his assigned door with the easy confidence of one following a familiar routine. The young lord paused briefly, that faint smile returning.

"Try not to stab anyone," he said, then disappeared through the doorway.

Soren approached his designated chamber with considerably more caution. The shard against his chest remained cool, Valenna’s presence withdrawn to that watchful distance she sometimes maintained. The door swung open at his approach, revealing a scene that stopped him dead in his tracks.

A small army of maids awaited within, at least five of them, each with the efficient posture of soldiers ready for deployment.

The room itself was larger than Soren had expected, dominated by a polished copper tub steaming with hot water.

Racks of clothing lined one wall, while a table near the window held an assortment of small bottles and implements whose purpose he couldn’t begin to guess.

"Master Thorne," the eldest of the maids greeted him, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a severe knot. "We’ve been instructed to prepare you for tonight’s gathering. Please, come in."

He stepped through the doorway, and they descended upon him like a well-coordinated hunting pack.

"This will need to come off," one said, reaching for his travel-stained tunic without waiting for permission.

"And these," another added, hands already working at the laces of his boots.

"The belt too," a third chimed in, fingers moving to the buckle at his waist.

Soren froze, instinct urging him to fend off these invaders of his personal space. But resistance seemed futile, they moved with the practiced efficiency of those who had performed this ritual countless times before.

Within moments, they had divested him of his outer garments, leaving him standing in nothing but his underclothes, feeling exposed and suddenly vulnerable.

The shard against his chest pulsed once, warming slightly as Valenna’s presence sharpened in his mind.

’My, my,’ her voice whispered through his thoughts, rich with amusement. ’The fearsome street fighter, undone by a troop of maids. Shall I compose a ballad to commemorate your courage?’

’Shut up,’ he thought back, heat creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the steaming tub.

"The water will grow cold, Master Thorne," the eldest maid prompted, gesturing toward the bath. "And we have much to accomplish before the carriage departs."

Soren hesitated, the thought of disrobing completely before these women sending another wave of discomfort through him. The streets of Nordhav had taught him many things, but proper bathing etiquette in noble households wasn’t among them.

’They’ve seen it all before, little knife,’ Valenna murmured, her amusement deepening. ’To them, you’re merely another piece of House Velrane that needs polishing.’

With reluctance that bordered on physical pain, Soren removed his remaining garments and stepped into the tub.

The hot water enveloped him, momentarily distracting from his embarrassment with its unexpected pleasure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a proper hot bath.

His respite was brief. Almost immediately, the maids set upon him with cloths and brushes, scrubbing at his skin as if determined to remove not just dirt but the very memory of it. Scented oils were poured into the water, filling the air with unfamiliar fragrances, something woodsy and sharp, undercut with hints of metal and stone that somehow evoked House Velrane itself.

"Your hair, Master Thorne," one of the younger maids said, hands already working lather into his scalp. "It’s quite... resistant."

The shard pulsed against his chest, Valenna’s laughter rippling through his mind. ’Like its owner,’ she commented. ’Stubborn to the last strand.’

By the time they allowed him to exit the bath, Soren’s skin felt raw but undeniably clean. Towels appeared, patting him dry with brisk efficiency that left no room for modesty. He stood, feeling both polished and stripped bare, as the maids circled him with assessing eyes.

"The bruising is fading," one observed clinically, noting the yellowing marks from Kaelor’s training that decorated his ribs. "It shouldn’t show beneath the formal attire."

"His hands need attention," another added, lifting Soren’s palm for inspection. The calluses and half-healed blisters from sword practice stood out starkly against his freshly scrubbed skin.

Before he could protest, they were guiding him to a chair, applying salves and oils to his abused hands. The sensation was strange, soothing yet somehow invasive, as if they were erasing parts of him he’d earned through pain and perseverance.

The shard warmed against his chest, Valenna’s presence sharpening further. ’They prepare you for a different kind of battle,’ she observed, her amusement fading into something more contemplative. ’In the training yard, your wounds are badges. In the noble gathering, they would be signs of weakness.’

The eldest maid approached with what appeared to be undergarments of finer make than anything Soren had ever worn. The fabric was soft against his skin as they helped him into them, followed by a shirt of white linen so fine it seemed to float rather than fall against his body.

Next came breeches of deep black, fitted close to his legs but allowing freedom of movement. The boots that followed rose to his knees, the leather polished to a shine that reflected the room around him.

Each item was handled with reverence, positioned with precision, adjusted until it sat exactly as required.

"Stand straight, Master Thorne," the eldest maid instructed, her tone brooking no argument. "A blade must appear sharp even in its scabbard."

The final layer was a surcoat of deepest black, its edges and shoulders worked with silver thread that caught the light when he moved. The design wasn’t ostentatious, no gaudy patterns or excessive ornamentation, but its very simplicity spoke of confidence, of power that needed no embellishment.

A belt completed the ensemble, black leather with a silver buckle shaped like the Velrane crest. One of the maids presented his sword, its hilt polished and blade cleaned, now housed in a formal scabbard that matched his attire.

"The final touch," the eldest maid said, fastening the sword at his hip with practiced hands. "A Blade must wear his purpose openly."

Throughout it all, Soren stood rigid, fighting the urge to squirm beneath their ministrations. This wasn’t preparation; it was transformation. They weren’t dressing him, they were erasing him, replacing the street fighter from Nordhav with something else entirely.

’You resist,’ Valenna observed as the maids fussed with his collar, adjusting it to frame his face properly. ’But consider, little knife, clothes are chains, chains meant to bind perception. They see the garb before they see the man. Use that.’

One of the younger maids approached with a small pot of some waxy substance, reaching for his hair. Soren stepped back instinctively, earning a disapproving click from the eldest.

"It must be properly styled, Master Thorne," she said. "Lord Callen was most specific."

Soren submitted with poor grace, standing still as they tamed his unruly black hair into something more befitting a noble household’s representative. The shard pulsed against his chest, Valenna’s amusement returning in full force.

’Poor little wolf,’ she whispered. ’So much easier to face a blade than a comb.’

When they finally stepped back, apparently satisfied with their work, the eldest maid gestured toward a tall mirror in the corner. "See for yourself, Master Thorne. The transformation is complete."

Soren approached the mirror with the caution of one expecting an ambush. The reflection that greeted him was simultaneously familiar and foreign, his features, yes, but framed and presented in a way he’d never seen before.

The black and silver of House Velrane lent him a severity that transformed his usual wary expression into something more commanding.

His posture, drilled into him by Kaelor’s relentless training, now seemed to belong to this formal attire in a way it never had to his recruit’s uniform.

He looked... noble. Dangerous in a different way than the street fighter from Nordhav. This danger was cold, calculated, sanctioned by power and tradition.

The shard warmed against his chest, Valenna’s presence close and watchful. ’There,’ she murmured, her voice oddly gentle. ’Now you see what they see, not the recruit, not the gutter rat, but the Blade. The weapon made flesh.’

The realization settled over him like the heavy fabric of the surcoat, both burden and armor. This wasn’t just clothing, it was a statement, a declaration of his place in the hierarchy. No longer merely a recruit, not yet a true knight, but something in between, a weapon with a specific purpose.

The door opened behind him, breaking his unsettling communion with the stranger in the mirror. Veyr stood framed in the doorway, dressed in finery that complemented Soren’s own but spoke more clearly of his status.

Where Soren’s attire was elegant but severe, Veyr’s incorporated subtle touches that marked him unmistakably as heir...copper thread among the silver, a chain of office hanging at his waist, the Velrane signet gleaming on his finger.

Veyr’s eyes swept over Soren, assessing the transformation with the cool gaze of one inspecting a newly forged blade. A slight smirk played at the corner of his mouth.

"Well," he said, "it seems they’ve managed to make you presentable after all. Good. Wolves need to look sharp before they feed."

The maids bowed and stepped back, their task complete. Soren stood straighter, feeling the weight of the formal clothing, the unfamiliar pressure of the polished boots, the strange lightness of his cleaned and styled hair.