17. Rorax
Rorax tried not to grumble to herself too loudly as she crossed the city limits into Bafta. The streets were teeming with people and overly dusty, as wagons full of civilians and merchants gathered for the Tournament of Houses. Anyone who spared her a glance gave her distinctive, golden-trimmed Contestar leathers a questioning look as she passed by, but most people were too wrapped up in their own lives to bother with her.
Every day for the past week since Rorax had arrived at the castle, she woke to train before the sun lit the sky. Today she met a still gaunt Jia in the hallway outside of Jia’s room, and together they went out to the empty arena behind the castle. They ran and sprinted laps around the grassy area, warming up and stretching for over thirty minutes before moving into their usual sparring routine.
The castle’s two baileys were habitually deserted when they left the arena, but when they returned, usually two hours later, a few of the Guardian’s soldiers would be sparring in the Contestars” Courtyard. Today Isgra was out training with them. She pretended not to see either of them, even when Jia had given Isgra a long, lingering look.
Usually, Rorax would take a bath and then disappear to the library after training to avoid the hottest part of the day. She’d search through the mountain of books Radashan always left for her and Jia to rifle through. But when Rorax returned to her room later that day, there was a small note attached to the door for her. She read over it three times very slowly to make sure that she’d read the neat handwriting correctly, before groaning and snatching the little piece of paper off her door and crumpling it in her fist.
“What is it?” Jia asked, coming to a stop next to Rorax.
Jia read it over and breathed out a laugh. It was a hollow, sickening sound to Rorax—completely devoid of Jia’s usual joy—but it was something. “At least you’ll have some new clothes. I’ve had to resort to stealing mine.”
Rorax raised her eyebrows at this, but her thieving friend only gave an unrepentant shrug before walking away.
Rorax only had time to take a quick bath and wipe the sweat off her leathers before she went out the door again.
When she finally stopped on a street corner, she uncrumpled the little piece of paper she’d been fisting the entire twenty-minute walk from the Northern Castle and smoothed it out with her fingers.
Please make your way to Wellbrok Tailors before midday to pick up your clothes.
102
3rd Street
South Bafta
When she finally arrived at the little building, she reread the sign twice to make sure she was in the right place before pushing the door open and making her way into the shop.
As soon as the door closed behind her and she could comprehend what she was seeing, Rorax froze and gaped at the rainbow-colored walls around her.
Fabric of every color, pattern, and material was crammed into dark wood shelves that lined every wall from floor to ceiling.
Reds, yellows, blacks, purples, blues, silks, chiffons, cottons, smooth leather, patterned leather . . . everything Rorax had ever dreamed was here.
She was still gawking at the room, when a hidden door covered by a shelf so full of fabrics Rorax hadn’t even noticed it, flew open and a blurred shape of a woman came flying out towards her.
“You! You are late! I have been expecting you for two days now!” The blur stopped in front of Rorax, and she gawked down at the woman glaring up at her with her hands on her hips before jabbing a stern finger into Rorax’s face. “I am not a storage facility, Greywood. The next time you can’t be bothered to show up on time, your clothes are going straight to the brothel! The orphanage! To my brother’s hogs! You will pick them up on time or not at all!”
Rorax knew this woman. Hella Wellbrok. She was the one who’d been in the castle when she had arrived, she had helped her bathe and dress when she had been lost to grief and shock. She had taken Rorax’s measurements and her Heilstorm armor to clean the dried blood away. The woman had blonde hair that draped around her face in tight ringlets down to her waist and sharp green eyes. Any gentleness she had displayed in Rorax’s vulnerable moments had long since left the woman’s features, leaving only a ferocious, blonde she-lion.
“I . . . um . . .” Rorax frowned down at the woman, suddenly feeling hot and flustered. “I just got your note today. I wasn’t aware they were ready to be picked up. I only ordered them three days ago. My usual tailor—”
“Your usual tailor?” Hella shrieked. “Your usual tailor? Do I look like your usual tailor to you?”
She opened her arms wide so Rorax could assess her. Rorax looked her up and down, taking in her sparkling purple dress and stylish boots, then swallowed hard before shaking her head. “No, I apologize. I will be here on time next time.”
If there ever was a next time. Rorax fervently hoped there wouldn’t be. The woman gave her a satisfied nod before sticking out her hand for Rorax to shake. “My name is Hella Wellbrok, your personal tailor for your time at the Northern Castle.”
Rorax shook her hand. “I remember you . . . do you have my black armor here?”
Hella nodded her head so fast her curly blonde hair bounced up and down. “I do! Follow me.”
Hella spun around and walked so fast she became a blur to Rorax again.
Rorax treaded carefully, following the small woman through the fabric-covered door that led to the back workshop. She peered around the door frame to find another room of similar size housing three massive sewing machines, endless measuring tapes, mannequins, and a clothing rack where her Heilstorm fighting leathers rested on a hanger in the front.
Rorax went to them immediately and ran her fingers over the leather. All the blood had been cleaned away and the leather had been expertly oiled and shined. They looked like the first day they had been issued to her.
Rorax glanced up to see Hella grabbing a clump of hangers with clothes of various shades off a different rack.
“Other Realms brought in custom tailors for their Contestars,” Hella griped as she heaved all the hangers and clothes across the room before hanging them next to Rorax’s black armor. “The only ones—the only ones—to remember me were the King and Queen of Ice. They paid me a fortune to dress you during the Choosing, so you will have all of my attention. You will be the best dressed Contestar here while you’re alive.”
Rorax blinked. Hella clicked her tongue as she flicked through the hangers so fast Rorax barely had time to register what she was looking at.
“Here are all the clothes you’ll need for the week. A casual outfit to lounge around in, another set of leathers to wear in case yours get scraped up and dirty again, a few casual dresses to wear.” Hella paused, “and your dress for the Emissary Ball.”
Hella reached up and grabbed the collar of Rorax’s Contestar leathers, yanking her face down so they were eye to eye. “If you casually lounge around in this Glitter Silk dress, I will poke a hole in the front of all your dresses for everyone to see your nipples for a month. Do you understand me, Greywood?”
“Okay,” Rorax breathed.
“Not good enough, I want your solemn oath!” The woman shook Rorax, using the collar of her Contestar armor to shake her.
Rorax didn’t understand how such a small woman could send a tendril of fear through her stomach over clothes, but she nodded quickly anyway. “Yes, Hella, I understand. No lounging around in the Glitter Silk dress.”
“Good.” Hella nodded in approval, releasing Rorax before turning away and retrieving a linen sack. She brought the sack over for Rorax to peer inside. “Underwear. And bras. You have big tits, so I made you three more fighting bras. You had been taking such bad care of yours the fabric had almost disintegrated!”
Rorax barely registered the insult as she peered at the fabric inside the sack. Lacey, sheer panties and bras filled most of the bag, along with a few sturdy cotton panties and the three promised fighting bras.
Rorax’s throat felt tight as she reached in and gingerly touched the lace.
Never in her whole life had she been given something so beautiful, so sexy. The Wolf always said such beautiful things were a distraction, unnecessary for Rorax to have since she was never to waver from her purpose.
She didn’t know if her blood-soaked hands deserved to touch such elegance.
Rorax released the lace and stepped back, clearing her throat. Hella must have seen something on Rorax’s face because her features softened as she reached out and patted Rorax on the arm.
“Everyone deserves beauty in their lives, Greywood. Especially those who haven’t had much of it.”
Rorax nodded thickly.
“Oh, and before you go, I was instructed to give you this.”
Hella held a letter out to Rorax. Stamped in green ink on the front of the pale paper were two king cobra snakes, a faceted diamond between them. The sigil of the King of the Underground.
Angelo.
Shocked, Rorax looked up at Hella, who pressed a finger to her lips. “The King of the Underground sends his regards. If you need anything from him or the Underground just say the words and I’ll make it happen.”
Rorax’s throat suddenly felt tight. “Do you know . . . do you know if anyone told him about Volla and Sahana?”
Hella’s eyes filled with sadness. “He knows, girl, and he wants you to survive this. For them, and for Jia.”