The dressing room at Reinhard’s residence had turned into an ocean of fabric since morning—gown after gown hung in a row along the wall, in colors of silk and brocade far more luxurious than anything Merope could have imagined someone wearing.
”Here, try this one,” Felt said, handing over a dark blue gown sprinkled with fine sequins around the chest.
“The color matches your eyes, it’ll definitely fit.”
Merope took it awkwardly, staring at the soft fabric with a mix of awe and slight nervousness.
“This is… very pretty. But heavy, isn’t it?”
”Well, it’s a court gown,” Felt shrugged, already busy shuffling through another stack of gowns beside her.
“Everything that looks good is a pain.”
They spent nearly an hour trying them on one by one—a maroon gown with gold lace on the edges, an emerald green gown with long graceful sleeves, and an ivory white gown Felt deemed “too plain for an event this important.” Every time Merope stepped out from behind the fitting curtain, Felt judged with a sharp eye, occasionally nodding in satisfaction, sometimes clicking her tongue and telling her to change again.
In the corner of the room, Reinhard stood waiting patiently, occasionally asked for opinions by Felt, which he always answered briefly and honestly—”good,” “not quite a match,” or, occasionally, an awkward silence that made Felt snort and say, “well, clearly you don’t understand fashion.”
Yet after the eighth gown, Merope stood before the large mirror, staring at her own reflection wrapped in dark blue silk with intricate embroidery running down the sleeves—pretty, luxurious, and technically perfect.
Yet something felt wrong, something she couldn’t quite explain, like wearing someone else’s skin.
”Reinhard,” she called out softly, turning from the mirror.
“May I ask for something?”
Reinhard raised his gaze from the corner where he stood.
“What is it?”
Merope looked down for a moment, her fingers twisting the edge of the silk fabric hugging her body, before finally speaking in a small yet honest voice.
”I want to keep wearing this white cloth.” She pointed toward the simple fabric hanging at the end of the room, the sole remaining item from the day she first woke up—the same cloth she had restored herself using her Authority of Vainglory in the forest.
“For some reason, it just calms me down.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
Felt stopped rummaging through other gowns, staring at Merope with an expression hard to read—not confusion, but something closer to profound understanding.
”That cloth,” Felt finally spoke softly, “that’s what you wore when you first met Reinhard, right?”
Merope nodded.
“I know this might sound strange. All these gowns are lovely, and I know I should choose the most appropriate one for an event as important as the Royal Selection. But every time I wear them, it feels like I’m pretending to be someone else. This white cloth… for some reason, it feels like me.”
Reinhard stared at her for a long time, something behind his eyes softening at the explanation.
He stepped forward, stopping right in front of Merope, evaluating the simple white fabric now hanging neatly in the corner as if seeing it for the first time with different eyes.
”In that case,” he said finally, “wear that.”
”Eh?
Really?” Merope looked up, her eyes widening with unexpected hope.
“But isn’t that inappropriate for an official event like—”
”Being appropriate,” Reinhard cut in, “isn’t just about wearing the most expensive or complicated fabric.
If that cloth makes you feel like yourself, it’s far better to appear as your calm self, than as someone trembling because they’re wearing something foreign.”
Felt let out a long sigh and smiled slightly, her tone remaining casual.
“Well, besides, if you think about it, a plain white cloth like that will stand out completely from the other candidates who are definitely dressing to the nines. It can be your own unique signature.”
Merope looked between them, and for the first time since that morning began with heavy gowns, she felt something loosen in her chest—not because she chose the most gorgeous attire, but because she was allowed to choose what felt most like her own.
”Thank you,” she whispered, a sincere smile returning to her face.
“I…
I will wear this.
But—” she glanced at the white cloth which was now slightly worn in places from a week of use, “—may I fix it up a little?
I want it to look neat, even if it’s simple.”
”Of course,” Reinhard replied.
Merope raised her hand toward the fabric, just like the first day she woke up in the ruins—and with a soft murmur that had become her habit, the white cloth fused back together perfectly, clean, neat, yet as simple as she had always worn it.
She checked the result in the mirror for a moment, then tilted her head, as if something was still missing.
”Now,” she murmured, her eyes sparkling with a new idea, “I want to tie a blue ribbon—like the color of my eyes—around this cloth, so it looks nicer.”
Felt raised an eyebrow, curious.
“That sounds good. Simple, but still has that signature touch.”
Merope raised her hand once more, this time picturing a thin dark blue ribbon—the exact same shade as her own eyes—wrapping around her waist, seamlessly merging with the white cloth without visible stitches.
In an instant, that blue ribbon appeared out of nowhere, tied perfectly as if it had been there all along, adding a splash of color amid her simple white attire.
She twirled once in front of the mirror, her white cloth fluttering lightly, the blue ribbon glowing softly in the room’s lights.
”How is it?” she asked, looking full of hope toward Felt and Reinhard, twirling once more enthusiastically to show off her handiwork from various angles.
Yet the moment that cloth fluttered high enough from her second twirl, Felt’s satisfied smile instantly morphed into wide-eyed shock.
”Hey, you’re not wearing underwear?!” she shouted, nearly jumping from her spot.
Merope stopped spinning, blinking in confusion.
“What’s underwear?”
”Huh?!” Felt moved quickly, grabbing the nearest blanket and wrapping it around Merope while shoving her behind the fitting curtain.
“You don’t know?! Here, let me handle this—hey, Reinhard, don’t peek!”
Reinhard, who from the very second of Felt’s yell had reflexively turned his face entirely toward the wall, simply sighed deeply.
“I had no intention of doing that,” he answered flatly, though a faint blush briefly touched his ears before he successfully neutralized his expression.
From behind the curtain came the sound of Felt half-scolding and half-explaining quickly, punctuated by Merope’s innocent questions entirely unaware of her mistake—a mix of rustling fabric and Felt’s long grumble about how “this kid really knows nothing about the world” filled the room for the next few minutes.
When the curtain finally opened again, Merope stepped out with a flushed, embarrassed face, her white cloth now neat with the same blue ribbon around her waist as before—only this time, equipped with what should have been there from the start.
”…Sorry,” she muttered quietly, looking down.
Felt sighed heavily, rubbing her own face as if surviving a tough battle.
“Well, whatever, it’s fine. Next time ask first if you’re confused, okay? Just consider this an extra lesson not on the schedule.”
Reinhard, who finally dared turn back after Felt’s brief clearing of her throat assured him it was safe, simply nodded slowly, choosing not to comment further on the incident—though his face still retained a trace of unusual stiffness.
Merope looked at her reflection one final time in the mirror—no longer someone pretending to be someone else behind lavish gowns, but herself, simple yet whole, ready to face whatever awaited in the days ahead.
…..
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