he bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside Silken Thread & Sons.
Warm lamplight spilled over shelves of folded cloth — velvets, silks, and linens in every shade of moonlight. The faint scent of lavender and dye filled the air. A plump tailor looked up from his desk, monocle glinting.
"Evening, travelers!" he said brightly. "Looking for something special?"
Ryn leaned casually on the counter. "Something practical, affordable, and not suspiciously flammable."
The tailor blinked. "Flammable?"
Lysandra shot him a warning look. "We'll just browse."
"Of course, madam!"
They moved among the racks. Lysandra's fingers brushed over the fabrics — soft blue gowns, traveling cloaks, embroidered shawls. For a moment, she looked less like a fugitive and more like the princess she truly was.
Ryn watched from behind, pretending to study a cloak but mostly watching her expression soften under the warm light.
She lifted a pale green dress, its fabric flowing like water. "This one seems… simple enough."
He tilted his head. "Simple? That looks like it could bankrupt a kingdom."
"It's modest," she said firmly.
"Yeah, modest like a golden chandelier."
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"Nope," Ryn said cheerfully. "My thoughts are too good to keep to myself."
She sighed, stepping behind a curtain to change.
Ryn leaned on the counter, tapping his foot. "So… this is the part where I awkwardly wait outside and pretend not to be curious?"
"Correct," came her voice from behind the curtain.
He grinned beneath his mask. "Got it."
A few moments of silence passed — then a thud.
"Everything okay in there?"
A pause. "Yes," Lysandra said, her voice strained. "The strings are… complicated."
Ryn smirked. "Need help?"
"Touch this curtain and I'll cht your fingers off."
He chuckled. "See, that's the spirit."
Another rustle. Then her voice, quieter. "Does it… look strange?"
He blinked. "You're asking me?"
The curtain opened just a sliver. Lysandra stepped out, the green dress catching the candlelight like rippling jade. It fit perfectly — elegant but unpretentious, the kind of beauty that didn't need a crown to command attention.
Ryn, for once, forgot to make a joke.
"You look…" He stopped, rubbed the back of his neck. "Like you might actually survive royal fashion week."
Her lips curved faintly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was one. Sort of."
The tailor appeared beside them, clapping his hands. "Splendid! The color suits you perfectly, my lady. And for your companion?"
Ryn blinked. "My what now?"
"Surely sir will also need attire? That coat looks… well… tragic."
Ryn looked down at his cloak — torn, muddy, and suspiciously burn-marked. "Tragic is a bold word. I prefer 'experienced.'"
The tailor sniffed. "Experienced in falling through swamps, perhaps."
Lysandra's lips twitched. "He could use something clean."
Ryn groaned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"A little."
Minutes later, he found himself shoved into a dressing room with a bundle of clothes and absolutely no dignity.
A few comical minutes passed. The sound of hangers, grumbling, and a muffled "why does this have so many buttons?" came from behind the curtain.
When he finally stepped out, the tailor gasped.
Ryn wore a dark blue coat trimmed with silver, his usual cloak replaced with a lighter traveling mantle. His mask still covered the lower half of his face, but the rest — messy black hair, sharp eyes, faint grin — made him look less like a criminal and more like a noble pretending not to be one.
Lysandra blinked, caught off guard.
Ryn spread his arms. "Well? Do I look respectable enough to get arrested with class?"
Her smile slipped before she could hide it. "It suits you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Careful, princess. That almost sounded like approval."
"Don't get used to it."
He chuckled, tossing a small pouch of coins to the tailor. "For the clothes. And for not asking questions."
The man caught it midair, weighing it with a grin. "Pleasure doing business, sir…?"
"Fox," Ryn said smoothly. "Just Fox."
They stepped out into the cool night air, moonlight silvering the cobblestones.
Lysandra adjusted her new cloak, testing the fabric. "You didn't have to buy something for yourself."
Ryn shrugged. "Can't have the Ice Fox looking shabby next to royalty. People might think I kidnapped you for ransom instead of adventure."
She gave him a side-eye. "You kind of did."
He grinned. "Semantics."
A short walk later, they reached a quiet barn on the edge of the village. The scent of hay and old wood drifted in the air.
Ryn pushed open the door. The interior was dim, lit by moonlight filtering through the cracks. Horses shifted in their stalls.
Lysandra frowned. "What are we doing here?"
Ryn put a finger to his lips. "Shhh. Reunion time."
He crept down the aisle until he stopped at a familiar white horse munching lazily on hay.
"Hey, Snowmuncher," he whispered. "Miss me?"
The horse snorted, unimpressed.
"I sold him earlier," Ryn explained quietly. "Had to. Needed coin. But turns out, I'm emotionally attached and slightly dishonest."
"You're going to steal him back?"
He looked offended. "Rescue. I'm rescuing him from a life of honest labor."
Before she could argue, he loosened the stall latch, whispered something, and the horse nudged his shoulder affectionately.
"See? He forgives me. Totally healthy relationship."
Lysandra pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're insane."
"Maybe," he said, mounting the horse. "But I'm efficient."
Minutes later, they slipped through the back of the barn, Ryn leading the horse while Lysandra followed close behind. Ahead, the moonlit road stretched toward the village's carriage yard — a fenced area where merchants stored their wagons overnight.
Ryn grinned beneath his mask. "Stage two of our exit plan."
Lysandra crossed her arms. "Does every plan of yours involve stealing?"
He thought about it. "Not every plan. Just the successful ones."
They crept up to the carriage yard gate. A heavy chain and iron lock barred the way.
Ryn crouched beside it, pressing his gloved palm against the metal. Frost bloomed instantly, crawling up the links like pale vines.
"Let's make this quick," he whispered.
The lock froze solid. He raised a small hammer he'd pilfered from the barn, took aim, and swung.
CRACK!
The frozen metal shattered into glittering shards, scattering like diamonds.
He grinned. "And people say crime doesn't pay."
They slipped inside, guiding the horse toward a sturdy covered carriage.
Lysandra hesitated. "You've done this before."
"Maybe once or twice." He winked. "Professional borrowing, remember?"
He hitched the horse, climbed into the driver's seat, and gestured dramatically. "All aboard, your royal frostiness. Next stop — wherever your kingdom hides its throne."
Lysandra climbed in, shaking her head but unable to suppress a laugh. "You're impossible."
"Still my best quality."
He flicked the reins. The horse snorted, and the carriage rolled forward, wheels crunching softly over the dirt.
Behind them, the frozen gate glimmered under the moonlight — a quiet mark of their escape.
As the village lights faded into darkness, Ryn leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "See? No dragons, no explosions, no angry nobles. Just a perfect, peaceful getaway."
A moment later, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.
Lysandra raised an eyebrow. "You were saying?"
He winced. "Okay, maybe I should stop tempting fate."
The carriage rolled on, carrying them westward — two fugitives wrapped in silk, sarcasm, and stolen wheels, heading toward a destiny neither of them could yet see.