Arila Vellion had defeated demon lords in her sleep. She had cleared legendary boss dungeons with one hand in a snack bag. She had survived the humiliation of a magical girl dating sim.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the very real threat of ornamental lace.
She took three steps down the velvet-lined hallway of the Vellion estate, tripped over the frilly hem of her dress, and collided with a decorative suit of armor.
"ACK!"
CLANG-CLANG-TWHUMP!
A pause.
"I'm alive," she muttered, face buried in a very expensive carpet. "At least the floor is soft."
Lira, her ever-patient maid, was by her side in an instant, helping her up and brushing her off with gentle hands and a smile that bordered on saintly.
"Lady Arila, are you alright?" Lira asked, concern creasing her brow.
"I'm being hunted by fashion," Arila deadpanned, tugging at the obnoxiously pink ribbon digging into her ribs. "Is this dress lined with tripwires?"
Lira chuckled softly, steadying her mistress as they continued down the hall. Arila moved like a baby deer on ice, hands flailing every time she caught her reflection in a golden-framed mirror.
"Perhaps a walking cane might help? Or... a training corset with less lace?" Lira offered diplomatically.
"What I need is a medieval cheat code," Arila muttered.
She adjusted her posture for the hundredth time, aware that somewhere deep in the flounces of her skirt lived a sentient puff of tulle intent on her destruction. Why did every dress feel like a trap designed by a particularly vengeful dollmaker?
The day continued much the same: Arila nearly drowned in a fountain after leaning too far to inspect a koi fish, set off a magical music box that played for thirty-six consecutive minutes, and knocked over an entire tea tower while attempting to steal the topmost cupcake.
"I WAS SET UP!" she shouted from beneath the wreckage.
Lira calmly swept the mess into a silver tray while the head butler stared in scandalized horror.
"The tea set was a hundred-year-old antique!" he cried, nearly fainting.
"Then it should have seen this coming," Arila muttered, crawling out like a frosting-covered goblin.
She resembled a sugar-dusted monster from a festive pastry realm, trailing whipped cream like a war banner. Somewhere behind her, a single teacup teetered off a saucer and shattered in slow motion, as if punctuating her existence.
By late afternoon, she'd retreated to the safety of her room, face-down on a plush armchair. Lira stood nearby, pouring tea as if it were a medical procedure.
"You know," Arila mumbled, muffled into the upholstery, "if this were an anime, this would be the part where the protagonist finally snaps and designs her own battle uniform."
Lira tilted her head. "My lady?"
Arila sat up like she'd been electrocuted. Her eyes sparkled with caffeine-fueled inspiration.
"Lira, get me parchment. And ink. And sugar. I have a vision."
Lira blinked. "...All three at once? Should I also prepare bandages in case inspiration involves sharp corners again?"
"Possibly," Arila muttered, already pacing the room like a designer with a vengeance. "Bring the good ink. The one that smells like crushed rose petals and power."
Three hours later, her desk was a battlefield of fabric swatches and aggressively sketched diagrams. Her design was revolutionary: a breathable blouse with no corset, a mid-length skirt that didn't trip you like a cursed trap tile, and—the pièce de résistance—flat shoes. Beautiful, beautiful flats.
They were inspired by a memory: blush-pink velvet with sheer sides for airflow, a rounded toe, and a tiny ribbon just for flare. She'd owned a pair like them back in Japan. They had been comfy enough to run for snacks in, stylish enough to confuse the occasional fashionista.
"None of this noble foot-binding garbage," Arila said firmly. "My ankles have rights."
The outerwear? A hooded jacket—yes, a hoodie. But make it elegant. Silver embroidery at the edges. A rune-woven lining for insulation and minor spell resistance. Functional, fashionable, and most importantly: comfortable.
"If the gods intended nobility to suffer, they would've made corsets part of the human skeleton," she muttered while labeling thread types. "This is liberation with drawstrings."
When Lira saw the finished designs, she blinked. Then slowly, carefully, smiled.
"You… designed this yourself?" she said in wonder.
"Of course. I may be stuck in Sparklelandia, but I still have taste."
"It's... lovely," Lira said, reverently touching the sketch. "Rebellious. Practical. Bold. Possibly illegal. But lovely."
There was a pause as they both looked at the sketch, the air in the room humming with forbidden innovation.
"Do you think we'll be arrested for this?" Arila asked.
Lira considered it. "Perhaps only exiled. But stylishly."
Dinner that evening was a formal affair, but Arila stormed in like a fashion-forward hurricane, unrolling her parchment and slapping it onto the table between bites of honey cake.
"Mother, Father, we need to talk."
Lord Caelan lowered his spoon. Lady Evelaine blinked at the sudden burst of artistic energy.
"I've made... corrections," Arila announced. "To everything."
Evelaine gently leaned forward, examining the designs with a graceful hand.
"Is that a… coat with a hood?"
"It's a cloak-hood hybrid with embroidery accents. Weather-resistant. No more frilly torture devices."
Caelan raised an eyebrow. "But where's the corset?"
"Buried. With my patience."
A silence fell. Then, surprisingly, Evelaine smiled.
"It's certainly unconventional," she said. "But very thoughtfully crafted."
Caelan nodded. "Looks comfortable. I like the little bows."
"Wait. You approve?" Arila asked, blinking.
Evelaine reached over and patted her hand. "Darling, if you can manage to survive the ballroom without falling into another harp, you may revolutionize noble fashion."
"I second that," Caelan added, chuckling. "And if you need a model for the dad version of this hoodie..."
"No," Evelaine and Arila said in unison.
Lira beamed in the background, already planning fabrics and measurements.
"Should I contact the seamstress or do we stage a midnight operation and do this ourselves?" she whispered to Arila later, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
"We do it ourselves. This is a resistance movement now," Arila whispered back. "Operation: Noblewear Rebellion begins tonight."
Later that night, Arila lay sprawled across her bed, parchment strewn around her like battle plans.
"I may not be the heroine," she whispered dramatically, hands folded over her chest, "but I will be the founder of the House of Comfy."
Lira entered quietly, holding a plate of macarons and a small stack of swatches.
"Lady Arila. I brought thread samples. And sugar."
Arila smiled. "You truly are my final evolution."
Lira giggled, setting the tray down. "And you, my lady, are chaos wrapped in ribbon."
To be continued...