The Noble Rumor Mill Reaches Critical Mass
By noon the next day, the gossip had metastasized into something unrecognizable.
Version 6 (The Stable Boys’ Consensus):
"I heard the tavern boy’s stew was so good, Lady Len proposed on the spot. He said no because he’s secretly a prince in hiding."
Version 7 (The Court Bard’s Ballad Draft):
"Oh, sing of the lad with the ladle so true, / Who stole her heart with a rustic stew! / Will love bloom ‘neath the lanterns’ glow? / (Or will her father have him stabbed? We’ll know!)"
Version 8 (The Governor’s Private Notes):
"Suspect: ‘Towan.’ Allegedly a ‘tavern boy.’ Too skilled with cutlery. Too at ease in conversation. Too handsome for a life of servitude. Conclusion: Foreign spy. Or worse—a romantic."
Towan’s Pre-Ball Panic
"I don’t own anything ball-worthy," Towan said, staring into the abyss of his wardrobe (which consisted of: two aprons, one slightly charred tunic, and socks that definitely itched).
Herb tossed him a bundle of fabric. "Leon’s old stuff. It’ll fit. Mostly."
The "mostly" turned out to be generous. The jacket sleeves stopped just shy of Towan’s wrists, and the trousers had a suspiciously fashionable taper that suggested Leon had once had opinions about noble tailoring.
"I look like a pretzel," Towan muttered.
"A dignified pretzel," Herb corrected. "Now stand still. I’m teaching you How to Noble 101."
Lesson 1: The Nod
"Not too high (arrogant), not too low (submissive). Think of it as… acknowledging a mildly interesting rock."
Lesson 2: The Compliment
"If you must praise someone’s gown, say it’s ‘striking.’ Never ‘pretty.’ ‘Pretty’ implies you’ve noticed them, and noticing is dangerous."
Lesson 3: The Escape
"If someone mentions ‘marriage contracts,’ immediately develop a coughing fit. If that fails, fake your own death."
Stolen story; please report.
Towan blinked. "This is worse than combat training."
Towan stood in the cramped storage room reserved for Leon’s things—a space that looked less like a closet and more like a contained explosion of weapons, half-finished maps, and suspiciously stained journals. He’d been digging through the chaos for anything remotely "ball-appropriate" when his fingers brushed against a worn leather case tucked beneath a pile of old training scrolls.
Dust puffed into the air as he pulled it free. The case was sturdy but aged, the edges softened by time. Scrawled across the front in faded ink were the words:
“Good suit in case A—”(The rest was illegible, eaten away by years.)
“Needs it.”
Towan frowned. “What’s this?”
He flipped the latch.
Inside lay a suit.
Not just any suit—a noble’s suit, the kind that cost more than most people made in a year. Black as midnight, threaded with silver so fine it shimmered like starlight when the fabric shifted. The cut was sharp, elegant, but with subtle reinforcements at the seams—made for someone who might need to fight in it.
“Why is this here?” Towan muttered, running a hand over the sleeve.
Curious, he shrugged off his tunic and tried it on.
The fit was perfect.
Not close enough. Not good for a hand-me-down.
Perfect.
The jacket hugged his shoulders without restricting movement. The trousers tapered just right, the cuffs falling precisely where they should. Even the waistcoat adjusted as if it had been tailored yesterday—not for whoever A- was, but for him.
Towan turned to the cracked mirror propped against the wall.
“…Huh.”
He looked like a noble. Not the stiff, preening kind, but the dangerous kind—the ones who smiled politely at parties while calculating how to dismantle empires between sips of wine. The suit didn’t just fit him; it respected him. Highlighted the lean muscle of his arms, the straight-backed posture drilled into him by years of training.
“Looks like it was made for me,” he murmured.
The door creaked open.
“Did you find anything in there, kid?” Herb called, shuffling in with a mug of something steaming.
Then he froze.
The mug hit the floor.
“WOAH. WOAH.” Herb’s voice cracked. “You—what the hell? You look like a true noble like that!”
Towan tugged at the cuffs, suddenly self-conscious. “It was in Leon’s stuff. The case said something like ‘good suit in case A—’ and then ‘needs it.’ Handwriting’s a mess. Hope he doesn’t mind I borrowed it.”
Herb circled him like a man inspecting a mythical creature. “Mind? Kid.” He whistled. “If you walk into that ball looking like this, half the nobles are gonna assume you’re some long-lost heir. The other half’ll try to marry you on the spot.”
Towan grimaced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Relax.” Herb clapped him on the shoulder—then immediately wiped his hand on his apron, as if worried he’d smudged the fabric. “Use this as a way to blend in, not freak out. For once, look the part. Maybe even enjoy yourself.” A smirk. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like pretending to be fancy.”
Towan rolled his eyes. “Doubt it.”
But as he adjusted the suit one last time, he couldn’t deny the strangest feeling—
Like Leon had left it there for him.
Not for “A—” whoever that was.
For him.
Five days till the ball