As we headed into the marketplace, Milo close beside me, I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with magic. It was the kind that lingers in your chest, unfamiliar and a little alarming, like waking to sunshine after a year of rain.
The Millcross bazaar had shrugged off the mud of morning and bloomed into a riot of color and sound. Stalls jostled for space along the crooked main street, hawkers shouted over the bray of donkeys, and every breath carried the smells of roasting nuts, frying batter, and less appetizing a nearby pen of goats in desperate need of a bath. Banners flapped overhead, each stitched with symbols that meant little to outsiders but signaled everything to locals: where to find the best onions, who'd take your coin (or fingers), and which baker had run afoul of the mayor last week.
I glanced down at Milo, who clung to my hand and stared around with an awed, open-mouthed wonder usually reserved for firework displays or dragons. His hair finally clean stuck up like a startled crow. His old shirt, ragged and threadbare, looked even sadder now that he was no longer hidden behind a layer of grime.
We stood out. Badly.
Time to fix that.
The first tailor's stall we found was manned by a woman who could have been anywhere from seventy to three hundred, her sharp eyes glinting through a haze of pins, thread, and fabric. She squinted at us, lips pursed, and tapped a battered ledger with one ink-stained finger.
"Clothes for the wild, or church?" she demanded, voice like a whetstone. "You look half-rescued and half-trouble."
"A bit of both," I replied, eyeing the racks of shirts, tunics, and cloaks. "He needs new everything. I need…less suspicion."
She grunted, immediately measuring Milo with a length of knotted string. "Boots too? Socks? Coat?"
"All of it."
Milo's eyes went saucer-wide. "All? Really?"
"Yes. And if you're good, maybe even a hat."
His face split into a grin that made something in my chest ache.
The tailor glanced at me over her spectacles. "And you, girl? Can't hide fire behind patches and dirt. You want to look like you belong, or like you're running?"
I hesitated, but the system pinged helpfully:
[Haggling Tip: Flatter their stock, insult their rivals, never admit your budget.]
I smiled. "Best clothes in town. Even the mayor's wife would envy your stitching."
She cackled, "The mayor's wife couldn't tell a hem from a hole. But you've got taste. Let's see what we can do."
For the next hour, Milo was a whirlwind of excitement. He tried on sturdy boots with laces that stayed tied (miracle!), thick woolen socks, trousers that fit, and a new shirt so soft he kept hugging himself. The old tailor looped a scarf around his neck a splash of red against the brown and gray and perched a floppy cap on his head.
I had to bite my lip not to laugh. He looked like every storybook orphan after the happy ending wide-eyed, cheeks pink, shoes just a hair too big.
"Look!" Milo spun in a circle. "They fit!"
"They're supposed to, silly." But I ruffled his hair, smiling despite myself.
The tailor pressed on. "Now you, miss. Let's get rid of that 'just robbed a turnip cart' look."
She steered me to a rack of practical tunics, fitted vests, and sturdy trousers. I chose a dark green shirt with rolled sleeves, a black vest with hidden pockets (always useful), and a pair of boots almost as nice as Milo's. I tried on a cloak the color of wet earth nothing flashy, just enough to blend in.
For the first time, as I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror, I looked like I belonged not as a stray, not as a bandit, but as someone who could walk into town and be ignored. Which, in my experience, was the surest way to survive.
The system pinged:
[Fashion Rating: Adorability +200%, Suspicion -30%. Shopkeeper Approval: High.]
We paid in coin and a little charm, the tailor taking extra care to knot Milo's scarf "so it wouldn't fly away on adventures." She gave him a boiled sweet for luck and watched us go, shaking her head.
"Take care of the boy," she called after me, voice softer than before. "Not many do."
I nodded, unable to trust myself to answer.
We threaded our way back into the bazaar, now twice as chaotic. Merchants waved, children shrieked, and a trio of street performers juggled knives while a goat tried to eat their props. Baskets overflowed with apples, pears, and Milo's eyes locked onto them a mountain of sugar-dusted pastries.
He stopped so suddenly I nearly yanked him off his feet. "What's wrong?"
"Those…" His voice was reverent. "I've never had one. Do you think they'd let me smell it for free?"
I rolled my eyes, but before I could think better of it, I handed him a copper. "One, not a dozen. We don't want a stomachache."
He dashed off, returning with a small, perfect pastry dusted with sugar and stuffed with spiced apple. He handed it to me first, solemn as a priest. "You should try it, too."
We split it, eating in sticky silence, the world around us blurring into color and sound.
We wandered past stalls of tanned leather, gleaming kitchen knives, jars of dried herbs, and a "magical" broom that kept tripping over its own handle. Milo watched everything with the greedless hunger of the truly deprived wanting nothing more than to see and know and remember.
As we walked, a pair of women gossiping over bolts of cloth nudged each other, nodding at Milo.
"Who's the new boy? Never seen him so neat."
"He's with that quiet girl maybe her cousin. Poor thing, hope she keeps him safe."
Their words surprised me less suspicious, more…hopeful. Maybe looking ordinary had its perks after all.
The system agreed:
[New Party Formation: "Not a Family, But Close Enough." Team Bonus: +1 Luck, +1 Stealth.]
By midday, we'd bought enough supplies to last the week: dried bread, cheese, a flask of cider, a jar of something claiming to be pickles, and a "travel knife" Milo was forbidden from using unless an actual dragon attacked.
We paused at the edge of the market, bags heavier, feet sore. Milo looked up at me, clutching his new scarf.
"You sure you want me around?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "Most people don't."
I knelt, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Most people are idiots."
He grinned. "You're different."
"Don't get used to it."