"It's snug," Renna says. She's sitting on the arm of her couch, watching me struggle with the bow tie. "That's the point. You look sharp."
"I look ridiculous."
"You look like you're trying. That's what matters." She hops down, walks over, and takes the bow tie from my hands. "Let me. You're mangling it."
Her fingers work quickly, looping and tucking the fabric until it sits flat against my collar. It's still uncomfortable. Still feels like a noose.
But when I finally force myself to look in the mirror again, really look, not just glance at the wreckage of fabric and muscle. I see someone different staring back at me.
Not an orc hauled from village to cage. Not a gladiator with blood under his nails and a number burned into his shoulder. Not a spectacle paraded in front of crowds who screamed and bet and never saw a person inside the green skin.
Just a man. Clumsy, maybe. Trying too hard, definitely. But a man who's learning how to bow without breaking someone's nose, how to hold a glass without shattering it, how to stand beside someone fragile and brilliant without crushing her under the weight of what he is.
A man trying to do right by the woman he loves.
The thought settles in my chest, warm and terrifying. I pull at the jacket one more time, straightening the lapels even though they'll never sit quite right. My reflection doesn't look comfortable. Doesn't look natural. But maybe that's not the point.
Maybe the point is just showing up.
"Better," Renna says. She steps back, arms crossed. "Now we work on your etiquette."
Etiquette is harder than fighting.
The rules were simple here. Don't die. Make the crowd cheer. Survive another day.
Here, there are a thousand tiny rules I don't understand. Which fork to use. How to hold a wine glass. The correct way to bow without looking like I'm about to charge.
Renna walks me through each one with the patience of someone training a particularly stupid dog.
"Smaller bows," she says for the tenth time. "You're greeting aristocrats, not challenging them to a duel."
I try again. Bend at the waist, just a slight incline. My back protests. Everything in me wants to go lower, show deference the way I was taught in the pits.
"Better," Renna says. "Now the handshake. Firm but not crushing. You're not proving anything."
I practice on Tick. He yelps when I squeeze too hard, then glares at me.
"Lighter," he snaps. "I need that hand for my job."
"Sorry."
We run through the motions again and again. Greetings. Small talk. How to navigate a buffet table without knocking anything over.
It's exhausting.
Worse than training. Worse than fighting.
Because failure meant pain. Here, failure means embarrassing Maris. Ruining the plan. Losing the last chance I have to prove I'm worth keeping.
"You're overthinking it," Renna says. She hands me a glass of water. "Just be yourself. Polite, earnest, a little awkward. People will eat it up."
"I don't want people to eat anything up. I want to find the kitten and the proof and fix this."
"Then trust the plan." Her voice softens, just slightly. "We've got your back, Grath. You're not alone in this."
The words settle in my chest. Warm and unfamiliar.
I've always been alone. Even in this place, surrounded by other fighters, I was alone. You didn't make friends with people you might have to kill.
