Chapter 55: Shopping
Inside, the store smelled of fresh linen and polished wood. Racks of clothes were arranged neatly, divided by section — practical adventuring gear, casual tunics, even formal wear lined with enchanted threads that shimmered faintly under the lamplight.
A middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and the air of someone who had seen it all gave them a polite bow.
"Welcome to Silverstitch Tailors," she said with a smooth professional tone. "Are you looking for casual wear, battle gear, or something more... formal?"
"Casual," Isolde answered immediately. "And something sturdy enough for travel."
Oliver was already distracted, running his hands over a dark blue cloak hanging on the display. "Whoa... this material feels way better than what we have now."
"Yes, dear," the shopkeeper said patiently. "That is enchanted thread — self-cleaning and fire-resistant. Double the price of normal travel clothes, but well worth it for an adventurer."
Isolde nodded without hesitation. "We’ll take two sets each. And make sure his actually fit him this time."
Oliver blinked, indignant. "Hey, what’s that supposed to—"
Isolde plucked a tunic off the rack and tossed it at him. "Go change. That thing you’re wearing looks like it’s survived three monster attacks — because it has."
A young shop assistant appeared at Oliver’s side, bowing politely. "This way, sir."
Oliver didn’t take long choosing his own clothes. A few tunics, trousers, a belt, and a replacement cloak later, he was done.
But when it came to Isolde... things took much longer.
Well, it was understandable.
Fashion had changed quite a bit from her era. And even though she was a powerful being feared by monsters and men alike, she was still a woman. A woman who was very excited at the sight of so many choices.
"Oliver, hold these," she said, tossing a pile of skirts into his arms.
"Wha—wait! How many do you—"
"—And these." Plop. Another stack of tops.
Oliver stood there, arms overloaded like a pack mule, following her from rack to rack as she flitted from one section to another with shining eyes.
By the time they were done, she had over twenty outfits piled high in his arms.
"Trial room," she declared with the authority of a queen.
"Yes, my lady," Oliver deadpanned, trudging after her.
The changing room area was curtained off, private but not soundproof. Oliver sat on the padded bench opposite the mirror while balancing the mountain of clothes beside him.
Isolde peeked her head out and gave him a mischievous grin. "You’re not just going to sit there quietly, are you? I expect commentary. Be honest."
Oliver sighed. "This feels like a trap."
Isolde just smirked and disappeared behind the curtain.
First outfit: a simple white blouse and black skirt combination.
She stepped out, did a playful spin, and posed with one hand on her hip. "Well?"
Oliver cleared his throat. "Looks... good. Like a normal traveler."
"’Good’?" Isolde raised an eyebrow. "That’s the best you can come up with?"
He shrugged. "You look good in anything. What do you want me to say?"
She smirked faintly, apparently satisfied, and went back inside.
Second outfit: a sleeveless tunic and tight leather shorts.
When she stepped out this time, Oliver choked on his spit.
"...Those shorts are illegal," he blurted.
Isolde tilted her head innocently. "Illegal?"
"They should be. They’re too tight! I can see your—"
"My what?" she teased, taking a slow step toward him, letting her hips sway on purpose.
"—Your legs," he lied quickly, looking away.
Isolde laughed softly, clearly enjoying herself, and turned toward the mirror, bending slightly as if to check the fit — giving him a perfect view of her ass.
Oliver buried his face in his hands. "...This is actual torture."
Third outfit: a flowy dress with a plunging neckline.
She walked out barefoot this time, the dress swaying around her legs as she posed dramatically. "Too formal?"
Oliver’s eyes went straight to the deep valley of cleavage on display. "...Way too formal."
"Formal dresses don’t usually make you stare like that," she teased, tugging the fabric aside just a little more before vanishing behind the curtain again with a grin.
From there, the teasing escalated.
She stepped out in a short frilly skirt and thigh-high socks, spinning once before bending forward slightly. "Does this look too childish?" she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.
Oliver made a strangled noise and turned away. "Y-yeah, that’s too childish! Change it, quickly!"
She giggled and disappeared inside, only to come back a moment later wearing a dangerously low-cut corset and trousers that hugged her hips.
"This one’s for combat," she said with mock seriousness, then struck a pose that made her cleavage nearly spill out.
"That’s not combat gear, that’s... that’s how you start combat," Oliver muttered, face red.
Isolde grinned wickedly, clearly enjoying every second of his discomfort.
By the time she reached the last outfit — a cropped top, short skirt, and thigh-high stockings — Oliver was gripping the bench like his life depended on it.
"Verdict?" she asked sweetly, leaning forward until her face was level with his, her breasts nearly spilling from the top.
Oliver’s mouth went dry. "...If you wear that outside, we’re going to start fights."
Isolde giggled, clearly satisfied with the reaction. "So it’s a yes?"
He groaned, covering his face. "It’s a yes, it’s a hell yes — just get changed before I lose the last of my self-control."
Oliver just sat there, face buried in his hands, muttering. "This woman’s going to kill me one of these days..."
~~~~
By the time Isolde finally decided which outfits to keep, Oliver was slumped over the bench like a defeated warrior, surrounded by a battlefield of discarded clothes.
"Alright, these," she said at last, holding up a neatly stacked pile of about ten full sets.
Oliver’s eyes widened. "T-ten? Do you think we’re opening a boutique?"
"They all suit me. And they were reasonably priced," Isolde replied with infuriating calmness.
"Reasonably priced for a noblewoman, maybe!" Oliver muttered, dragging himself to the counter like a man being marched to the gallows.
The shopkeeper tallied the total with the speed of someone who had seen this exact scenario many times. "That will be eight gold and four silver."
Oliver’s soul left his body. "Eight... gold?"
"You have plenty of money," Isolde said sweetly, resting her chin on her hand.
"That’s not the point—!"
But it was the point, and after a minute of grumbling he begrudgingly handed over the coins. His poor coin pouch felt heartbreakingly light afterward.
They stepped out of the tailor’s shop moments later.
Isolde now wore one of her newly-bought dresses — a soft pastel-blue knee-length piece that hugged her upper body snugly but flowed gently at the hem. It wasn’t sultry or scandalous like the ones she had teased him with earlier — instead, she looked bright, elegant, and almost... ladylike.
Oliver blinked, staring for a second too long.
"...What?" Isolde asked, tilting her head.
"Nothing," Oliver said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "...Just. You look... really good like that."
Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "I know."
The afternoon air was pleasantly warm as they strolled through the cobblestone streets.
Children ran past with wooden swords, merchants called out their wares from colorful stalls, and the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with that of roasted meat from nearby vendors.
Isolde’s mood was unmistakably cheerful, her steps almost skipping. Oliver, meanwhile, was still recovering from the "financial hit" he had taken, occasionally patting his much-lighter coin pouch with a pained look.
"You act like you’ve been robbed," Isolde teased.
"I was robbed," Oliver grumbled. "Legally. By a beautiful accomplice."
She laughed, the sound bright and amused.
Their stomachs soon growled in unison, reminding them that they hadn’t eaten since breakfast at the inn.
"Alright, I’m starving," Oliver admitted. "We need food before I pass out."
"Agreed," Isolde said, glancing around. Her eyes landed on a building with an elegant signboard, soft magical lanterns glowing around its entrance. "What about there?"
Oliver followed her gaze. It was a fine-looking establishment — polished wood exterior, decorative flowers by the door, and a pair of servers dressed in crisp uniforms standing by to greet guests.
"That’s a little... upscale," Oliver said slowly.
"You are rich now," Isolde reminded him.
"...Yeah, but—"
"No buts." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the entrance with surprising strength. "Come on, hero. Time to eat like civilized people for once."
The restaurant was nothing like the noisy taverns Oliver was used to.
The moment they stepped inside, they were greeted by a pair of sharply dressed hosts, bowing slightly. The warm golden light from enchanted lanterns illuminated the polished floors and crystal chandeliers overhead.
"Welcome to Moonlight Rest," one of them said with a courteous smile. "Table for two?"
"Yes," Isolde answered with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
Oliver, on the other hand, stood there stiffly, glancing around like he’d just walked into a noble’s mansion by mistake.
The host led them to a private corner table draped in white linen. The chairs were cushioned and far too comfortable for Oliver’s liking — as though they were designed to lull you into spending more money.