From the looks of the studio, Rivek was sure Torianye had to be some kind of genius. No ordinary person could work in such a mess. A dozen unsorted rolls of fabric lay crossed on the floor. Torianye lightly hopped over them to reach his desk - which was covered by so many cloth samples, Rivek mistook it for a sofa. Haphazard sketches were pinned directly into the walls’ wood paneling. Rivek was glad he wore boots, or he would have impaled himself on a stray needle by now.

Toriayne rifled through a drawer and threw a pair of black trousers at Rivek. “Put these on. I still need to tailor them.”

Rivek did as he was told, and Toriayne set to measuring the circumference of his waist and the length of his inseam. “I’ve always wanted to work for you, sir,” he said, between the pins in his teeth.

“‘Sir’ is reserved for knights - you don’t need to call me that.”

Torianye ran his tape measure across Rivek’s chest. “Nevertheless, it is an honor to design your outfit for this wedding.”

“My girlfriend’s wedding to a man who’s promised to kill me.” Rivek’s mandatory attendance had been Sorian’s idea. Willow tried to make it better by suggesting Toriayne dress Rivek for the wedding. Toriayne had good taste, but even his aesthetics didn’t help with the bitter undertones of Sorian’s invitation.

Torianye placed his hand over Rivek’s. “Believe me, we appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made for us.”

“You’re not even a black-mage.”

“But that doesn’t mean you haven’t affected my life.” He smiled. “Without your - shall we say, interference? - I wouldn’t have met Bohren. This is the least I can do.”

Rivek laughed uneasily. “Alright, show me.”

“I didn’t think you would want to stray far from what you normally would wear, but I thought it would be nice of you to wear something that brought out those eyes.” Toriayne dug through a pile of shirts on his bed, producing a navy vest. A bright blue ribbon, a perfect match to Rivek’s irises, was embroidered on the inside of its the collar. But that was not the thing people would noticed. Embroidered across the garment’s back in silver thread was a six-spoked wheel. A black falcon in a death-defying dive spiraled around the southernmost point. The banner in its beak read: “argia ei pilio,” wrath and pardon.

“I think you deserved an outfit that shows who you are: the falcon that dives headfirst to the ground at over two hundred miles an hour, yet somehow can survive. There are many times I have thought you would have died, but you made it through.” He motioned for Rivek to put it on. “You showed me it was possible.”

Rivek slipped it over his shirt - the fabric was a lot heavier than it looked. Toriayne smiled as must have he noticed the slip of surprise on Rivek’s face. “I’ve re-enforced it.”

“Obviously I haven’t been able to work on the pants yet, but I met an enchanter who has a way of working magic with thread.” He moved over to a chest and pulled out a pair of similarly decorative black boots with a wing pattern drilled up the sides. They seemed innocuous enough, but under the leather, Rivek could feel they were also lined with steel. Toriayne waved his hands, throwing a pair of gauntlets in Rivek’s face. Rivek turned them in his hands and found at least four places he could hide a blade. “Bohren obviously couldn’t be here, but he wanted me to give those to you. Cost him a lot, I might add.”

Rivek laughed. “I guess, if I am going to die, then I might as well make it look good.”

“There’s that spirit.” Toriayne laughed. “But I went through a lot of trouble making that, so don’t get too much blood on it, all right?”

---

“Ospkulon.” Mirror - 075/100 Themes.

Sorian’s a reasonable man: in exchange for not sacking the entire country, he just wants de-power every dark-mage in existence. Oh, but there’s a bonus stipulation: he gets to kill Rivek. What’s a bird got to do? Luckily, he has a few friends with a sense of fashion - and armor design.

Cinna was my favorite character in The Hunger Games. Toriayne takes some inspiration from him.

More Writing/Art Featuring These Characters:


Rivek Ailinar, Bohren Tabirian and Toriayne No-Last-Name-Yet belong to Grace Fong,