1513 DR

Striding into the Knight Sergeant’s office, Mel could tell by the look on Wysaphine’s face that their request to postpone the promotion ceremony was denied.

She sighed, rubbing her forearm to ease the itchiness of the bandages. “Does the Council not care there’s a war going on?”

Wysaphine winced. “They care. But it's not their priority until Vesperin is called upon.”

Rolling her eyes, Mel leaned back on her heel. “So what now?”

“I say you go, even if you have to leave during the sobersides’ ceremony.”

“Is that the Knight Sergeant's advice…or Wysaphine's?”

Wysaphine shrugged. “Both?”

Mel turned to go. “I'll go pack–”

The Knight Sergeant groaned in dispute. “You’re scheduled to get fitted at Messer Ierfain’s shop in Swordspoint.”

Huffing, Mel left Wysaphine’s office with a terse, “Very well!”

“Congrats again!”

She opted to walk to the Nine’s – the locals’ name for Messer Ierfain’s store – preferring to work out her excess irritation rather than stew in it during a carriage ride. A constant thrum of anticipation resonated in her gut, eager to get on the road to Katashaka and hold off the escalating tensions. She didn’t need an ostentatious ceremony to present her promotion – she already wore the ring, the mark of her new station.

Waiting for traffic to slow on the Rhabie Promenade, she inspected said ring. It was hard-won, but a simple thing: a silver band, with a rose in red inlay and the smallest of wings in white inlay along the sides.

She rubbed at the bandages on her arm again as she crossed.

The dome of the Moonflame rose in the distance over the other buildings in the Altarside and she realized she should have gone down the promenade instead of crossing. The slight detour to pass the Moonflame was a subconscious one, and as expected of the time of day, no one was seen around the grounds.

Perhaps the High Moonmistress would attend the promotion ceremony; after all, she sponsored Mel’s squireship.

Mel cut across Fiddler’s Green, and the chime oaks in the southwest glittered brightly in the early-afternoon sun.

Several couples strolled through the greenery in fine clothes, unperturbed and carefree. It was an odd sight, in comparison to her mood. The nobility either didn't feel the weight of war; or, more likely, felt only the fattening of their coin purses.

It only embittered her further to the pomp of the promotion ceremony.

Sighing heavily, she approached Messer Ierfain’s shop.

Entering with the jingle of a bell announcing her presence, she muttered under her breath, “Let’s get this over with.”

It was cozily-lit by mosaic lanterns hanging about the walls. A large work area at the back was crowded by at least seven mannequins, all in various states of dress. On one of them, she recognized the raiments of the Knights of the Golden Rooster.

“Welcome, welcome!” A clean-shaven dwarf rounded a rack of fabrics, smiling broadly. “I am Messer Ierfain.”

“Well met,” she greeted. “My name is Mel, with the Knights of the Dove.”

“Ahh, yes!” The dwarf nodded. “I’ve been expecting you. This way, please.”

Mel followed them towards the back area, where they plucked up a long, rainbow-colored tape measure. They gestured towards a small depression set into the front of a few mirrors. Standing at the center of the depression, Mel did her best to look everywhere but her reflection.

“So, remind me what we’re fitting for?” Messer Ierfain requested as they began running the tape along her shoulders.

“Erm…a promotion ceremony,” Mel answered.

“Right, right,” they answered distractedly. “So an ordinance dress…” They crouched down, wrapping the tape around her calf. “You’re rather young. Have you been with the knights long?”

“Just a couple of years.”

They chuckled. “Following in Wys’ footsteps, are we?”

“You know the Knight Sergeant?” Mel asked, watching them in the mirror.

“Certainly. After I took over the shop, she was the first woman who commissioned me for a uniform,” the messer said. “Helped get the word out that Nine’s was no longer just for menfolk.”

“Sounds like her.”

“May you lift your arms? Like so?” The dwarf held their arms perpendicular to their body.

Mel followed the instruction, but flinched, her right shoulder twinging.

The messer watched, eyes trailing down to the bandages that peeked out of her sleeve.

“Sorry.” Slower, she managed to lift her arms as instructed.

They measured her wingspan silently before directing her arms back to her sides. A troubled frown tightened their face as they continued.

She worried she did something wrong, until the messer finally asked, “Are you the one who stopped the wyrmling in the Tentowers?”

Inhaling, Mel bowed her head, bracing for the multitude of questions. “Yes.”

“By the hells,” they breathed. “Did you really stick your hand down its gullet?”

“I did.” She wasn't entirely proud of it – in retrospect, it was almost embarrassing.

Messer Ierfain stared at her reflection in the mirror, tape measure hanging forgotten around their neck. “I can't decide if that's the bravest or dumbest thing I've ever heard.”

“You would not be alone,” she muttered, cheeks heating up.

They sniffed, shouldering their professionalism once again, cowing sheepishly for letting it slip. “Still. The Knights of the Dove are well-known for their…resourcefulness.”

Mel smirked. “That's one way of looking at it.”