She ran her fingers along the nearest tunic, noting the quality. These weren't servants' clothes or basic wear. The fabric matched the court gowns in quality, but was cut for utility rather than display.
Someone had noticed her preference for the blue silk and accommodated it.
She'd spent years learning to read people's intentions through their actions. Gifts always came with strings attached. Kindness always had a price. Considerations were usually the prelude to demands.
So what was the angle here?
But even as she questioned it, she appreciated the craftsmanship. The cuts that didn't sacrifice elegance. The hidden pockets were positioned exactly where she would have placed them herself. The boots that looked like they'd been made for her feet.
Whoever had arranged this understood what she needed. And more unsettling, understood what she would want.
She selected the midnight-blue tunic and fitted gray pants, adding the jacket with its hidden pockets. The clothes fit perfectly—either magic or a highly observant eye for measurements. The fabric felt luxurious but practical enough that she could forget she was wearing it.
When she caught her reflection in the bone-framed mirror, she barely recognized herself.
Gone was the desperate thief in stolen noble's clothes. Gone was the overdressed tribute drowning in silk. This version of her looked lethal, as if she belonged in this world of death magic and politics.
Like someone who might survive here.
Weeks ago, she'd been a prisoner waiting for death. Now she stood in a Death Lord's palace wearing clothes chosen for her preferences and needs, surrounded by purple silk walls where death scenes shifted when she wasn't looking.
Three knocks at her door interrupted her thoughts.
"Miss Brynn?" Naia's voice carried through the wood, but tension threaded through her tone. More formal than usual, but also more urgent.
"Come in," Brynn called.
The soul entered carrying a breakfast tray, but her usual manner seemed strained. The translucence that marked her as one of the dead flickered more noticeably than normal, as if whatever animatedher was struggling with emotion. She set the tray on the small table near the window.
"Thank you for the clothes," Brynn said, gesturing toward the wardrobe. "They're perfect."
"The Reaper was quite specific in his requirements." Naia’s eyebrow arched as she gave Brynn an assessing look. "He also requests your presence in the deep chambers."
Brynn paused in the middle of lacing her boots. The bone fingers of the chair's armrests seemed to press against her forearms, though surely that was her imagination.
So it had been him.
The Death Lord, who barely spoke to her beyond instructions. Who maintained distance at all times. Who looked at her like she was a problem he hadn't figured out how to solve yet.
That same Death Lord had personally selected her wardrobe. Right down to the reinforced pockets and sturdy boots.
After yesterday's display in front of every Death Lord in existence.
"The deep chambers?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.
"Below the palace proper. Where the oldest foundations lie." Naia's voice flattened in that way that suggested bad news. "Few are brought there."
"And fewer still come back unchanged?" Brynn guessed, echoing the pattern from their first conversation.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Naia's face. "You learn quickly. Yes."
Brynn finished with her boots and stood, testing the fit. They felt reliable. Like someone had considered what she might need them for. "What's down there that requires my presence?"
"Old magic," Naia said. "The kind that remembers things we'd rather it forget."
That wasn't ominous at all.
"Any advice for someone about to descend into ancient magic chambers?"
