The Villainess Wants To Retire-Chapter 310: Part IV

The afternoon reached its peak of absurdity with the Ceremonial Food Tasting.

Eris sat in the Lesser Hall, surrounded by a circle of eager Nevarethian attendants and a very expectant Master of Revels. Tradition dictated that the bride-to-be sample the "Delicacies of the Tundra" to ensure her palate was attuned to her new home.

A silver platter was placed before her. On it sat a mound of *fermented seal liver* cured in glacial salt and topped with a garnish of bitter sea-lichen.

Eris stared at the grey, translucent mass. It smelled like the underside of a pier that had been abandoned for a century. She felt the heat in her blood rise in a reflexive protest.

"A specialty of the North-Reach," the Master of Revels beamed. "It provides the fortitude of the bear."

Eris glanced at the attendants. They were watching her with the intensity of scientists observing a rare specimen. She knew what they wanted: a flinch, a grimace, a Southron delicate-ness they could mock over tea.

She picked up the silver fork. With a grace that felt like a lie, she took a bite.

The flavor was an assault... oily, metallic, and aggressively pungent. It tasted like grief and old salt.

She chewed. She swallowed. Her expression remained as flat and unreadable as the palace walls.

"Unique," she said, her voice steady, though she was internally calculating how many gallons of fire-wine she would need to wash the memory from her tongue. "I can see why it is reserved for... special occasions."

The attendants looked almost disappointed. She had denied them their spectacle once again.

...

The atelier was a tomb of silent industry, sealed away from the prying eyes of the court by walls of froststone that hummed with ancient wards.

Inside, the air was held at a precise, uncomfortable equilibrium; heat crystals glowed with a low, amber light, providing just enough warmth to keep the delicate fabrics from becoming brittle, but not a single degree of comfort for the living.

There were no courtiers here. No gossiping ladies-in-waiting. Only the Master Tailor... a man who looked as though he had been carved from a weathered mountain... two senior seamstresses with needles like silver talons, and a spellweaver who sat cross-legged in the corner, her fingers twitching as she maintained the structural enchantments of the room.

Eris stood upon the dais, a silent pillar of endurance.

The gown was not yet a finished thing, but a promise of power. It was an architectural marvel of ice-silk, layered over a foundation of denser, warded fabrics that felt like liquid armor. Every stitch was a binding, every seam a fortification.

It was designed to look as light as a winter breath, yet it was doing the violent, silent work of containing the Fire Queen. The neckline was a particular point of contention... modest enough to satisfy the glacial etiquette of the Northern Empire, yet aggressively ambitious given the reality of Eris’s anatomy.

The Master Tailor paused. He walked a slow, agonizing circle around her, his measuring tape hanging like a hangman’s noose. He stopped, stared, and let out a sigh that contained the weary history of every dress he had ever sewn.

"Your Highness," he rasped, his eyes narrowing.

Eris tilted her head. "Yes?"

"Has your chest... increased in volume since the last fitting?"

The room went deathly still.

Eris stared at him, her internal thoughts a chaotic blur of

Is that a medical observation or a treasonous insult?

She glanced down at the bodice, then at her reflection in the rune-rimmed mirror, then back to the man who looked like he was contemplating a tactical retreat.

"No?" she offered, the word sounding more like a question than a denial.

One of the seamstresses muttered under her breath, not looking up from a hem. "We accounted for growth. We were thorough."

"We were," the spellweaver added, her voice flat and deadpan. "We were exceptionally generous with the structural allowances. And yet, physics remains a cruel mistress."

Eris remained entirely still, mildly offended on behalf of the laws of nature. She remembered the last fitting. She had been there.

They had used three different rulers, a compass, and a specialized spell circle to ensure the dimensions were exact. It wasn’t an error of calculation; it was simply the reality of her body refusing to be diminished by Northern silk.

The Master Tailor stepped forward, his hands moving with the precision of a surgeon. He signaled for a hidden seam to be loosened, while the spellweaver leaned in to strengthen a reinforcement charm at the base of the bodice.

A support weave was subtly redirected, shifting the burden of the fabric until the tension eased by a fraction of a millimeter.

"It will hold," the tailor finally declared. He didn’t say it would be comfortable. He didn’t say it would be easy. He said it as though he were promising that a dam would hold against a flood.

The humor died as the weight of that statement settled. This wasn’t just about a dress. It was about containment. It was about the Empire bracing its iron ribs around her, trying to find a way to house a sun within a palace of glass.

When the fitting was done, the gown was removed with the reverence given to a holy relic. It was wrapped in treated vellum, sealed in a frost-wood crate, and ward-locked. As Eris dressed herself back in her simple robe, one of the seamstresses leaned in, her voice a ghost of a whisper.

"The Empire will remember this gown. They will remember it for a hundred years."

...

Eris moved through the recovery wing, her steps quiet on the stone. She found Mira in a sun-drenched room, the girl’s face still the color of bleached bone.

Eris did not enter as a sovereign; she stripped off her formal gloves, tossing them onto a side table, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"My Lady," Mira whispered, her voice cracking. "I am... I am so sorry for being such trouble."

The words cut deeper than the Ice-Waking Ritual ever could. Eris reached out, her hand warm and steady against Mira’s. "You are not trouble, Mira. You are mine. And those who touched you will find that a very expensive mistake."

In the corner, Ryse stood like a gargoyle. He was less talkative than usual, but his eyes never left Mira. When the girl winced while trying to sit up, he was there in a heartbeat, his large hand supporting her back before she even had to ask.

Eris watched the way his fingers lingered, the way he looked at the maid with a fierce, quiet protectiveness that had nothing to do with his orders. She filed the observation away in the back of her mind... a debt of loyalty she would one day have to repay.

From the infirmary, Eris transitioned to the high-security guest wing where Duchess Maren was being kept.

To say her day was packed, would be an understatement.