◆ The Nature of Friendship Among High Nobles
The offer came from a classmate—though not one with whom I had shared much in the way of interaction.
Something in his web of intelligence must have caught onto certain scattered fragments, piecing them together until, ultimately, my name surfaced within the unfolding circumstances.
It would not be unreasonable to assume that, having deduced this much, he determined that extending a favor to me might, in time, yield benefits for his family.
Even if it did not, there was no real harm in doing so.
Gaining a connection in the frontier was, at the very least, not without merit.
After all, what was a single ceremonial dress uniform to him?
The cost of a ready-made formal suit, appropriate for the occasion in question, was likely no more than a fraction of what he would spend on a mere trinket for his betrothed.
Thus, at his behest, I met with him the following day.
The carriage that awaited me was a grand affair of polished ebony, its craftsmanship exquisite beyond words.
Of the many noble carriages that frequented the aristocratic district, I had never before seen one of such splendor.
The family crest upon its door marked it unmistakably as belonging to a marquess’s house.
Was it truly appropriate for me to accept this invitation?
Even as doubt gnawed at the edges of my thoughts, I was ushered aboard.
The seats, upholstered in the finest velvet, were softer than clouds themselves.
The soundproofed interior held a hush so profound, it might have been a moving reception hall.
Had it been wise to follow him without question?
As I pondered the thought, the carriage came to a smooth halt before a single storefront.
― A Tailor of Unmistakable Prestige ―
Nestled near the heart of the noble district stood a tailor of evident renown.
From its solid, dignified façade alone, one could infer the magnitude of its clientele.
The entrance, set back from the main street, bespoke a deliberate design—this establishment expected its customers to arrive by carriage.
Ordinary merchants would never afford such an extravagance.
In the prized real estate of the royal capital, sacrificing usable space merely for the convenience of arrivals and departures was unthinkable.
Yet here it was.
Which meant… this was a shop frequented exclusively by the highest echelons of nobility.
Hmph.
Skill alone would not be enough to secure such clientele.
No—status, history, and prestige were at play here.
The very fact that one had commissioned attire from this establishment was itself a mark of status.
If I misstepped here, even slightly, the repercussions would be swift.
Steeling myself, I observed the storefront with a wary gaze, tension setting into my shoulders.
My companion noticed and smirked.
As if to say: You understand, don’t you? Exactly what sort of place this is?
His knowing amusement did nothing to ease my apprehension.
Completely indifferent to my unease, he strode forward and opened the door.
― A Suit Commissioned in Mere Hours ―
“Welcome, young master. What brings you to us today?”
“I need a formal suit tailored. Immediately. If you begin at once, it should be done within four hours, correct? Ensure that it does not disgrace my house. Ah, not for me—for him.”
“…Understood.”
The middle-aged tailor, clearly the master of this esteemed establishment, bowed deeply in deference.
Though his keen eyes scrutinized my companion, he refrained from comment.
The same could not be said for me.
With an intensity akin to a blade’s edge, he turned his gaze upon me, surveying from head to toe, then back again.
Measuring.
Assessing.
Calculating.
And in mere moments, he had arrived at some unknown conclusion.
“This way. Precise measurements are required.”
I was left with no choice but to comply.
Had I resisted, I might have disrupted the craftsmen’s work—and that, in turn, would reflect poorly upon my companion.
No, here… I would simply yield.
Evidently, this tailor had an exclusive arrangement with my companion’s family.
For despite the unreasonable demand, he had accepted it without hesitation—and proceeded to make it a reality.
But wait—
Something was amiss.
The formal attire I was to receive would be of a quality befitting a marquess’s house.
Yet… how could such a thing be completed in mere hours?
This was bespoke tailoring.
How was it possible to take my measurements, construct a provisional fitting in two hours, adjust the finer details through four rounds of refinement, and complete the garment in four hours total?
What manner of insane efficiency was this?
The frontier’s common sense held no meaning here.
This was the royal capital.
Or more precisely—this was the prowess of high nobility laid bare before me.
“…The young master’s friend possesses quite the remarkable physique.”
“Naturally. His training sets him apart.”
“It brings to mind the valiant knights of your household—and even your esteemed father in his younger years.”
“Hmph! So? Whose pattern did you use?”
“…That, dear young master, is a trade secret.”
The master tailor allowed himself a sly grin, running a hand over the measuring tape draped around his neck.
Upon confirming this, my companion’s lips curled into a satisfied, almost mischievous smirk.
He then gave a brief nod before turning toward the door.
“Bill it to my house,” he instructed.
And just like that, the transaction was settled.
I was handed a single, exquisitely crafted garment bag—far too lavish for someone of my standing.
The sheer weight of it in my grasp felt alien, a stark reminder of the vast disparity between our stations.
But a gift was a gift.
And I would accept it in kind.
**”Shoes, undergarments—you have your own, yes? The bag contains a full formal set. You do know how to dress yourself properly, don’t you? You may be a knight’s son, but you’re still nobility.
…Well, I suppose it hardly matters. Neither of us hold rank or office, so we’ve no medals to wear. This will suffice.”**
“For the son of a marquess to prepare something of this value for the third son of a mere knight’s house… is it not excessive? What, then, is the price?”
“…Just remember me.”
His tone was casual, but the words carried weight.
“Everything has its calculations. I’ll leave it to you to infer my intent.”
I nodded slowly.
“I see… I understand.”
It was not pure benevolence.
There was an unmistakable pragmatism in the gesture.
But that, too, was something I would accept.
At that moment, I could not have foreseen just how deeply entwined our fates would become—nor that this relationship would stretch on for years to come.
All I knew was that I owed him a debt.
And I would see it repaid.