The seamstress's touch was reassuring as she led the girl inside, away from the cool evening air. The warmth didn't hit them immediately; first, there was the entryway, cooler and dimly lit, where the seamstress paused to speak with the attendant. She exchanged a few coins for their entry, requesting a private room for the girl to wash away the day's grime. The priest, with a brief nod to the girl, was directed to the male section.

The girl didn’t protest, still overwhelmed by fatigue. Her thoughts swam slowly as she tried to imagine what it’d be like. She had heard of bathhouses, sure, but she had never thought of visiting one. What was it like? Was it just about washing off the day's grime, or was there more to it? Would there be rules she didn't know about? Would they do something if she did something wrong? Would she have to undress in front of strangers? The thought made her uneasy.

Inside, the air became warmer and more humid. They entered a small, tiled shower room featuring a simple shower. The shower boasted a stone panel that not only activated the water flow but also allowed for adjustments in pressure—a simple slide of the hand up or down the panel increased or decreased the water's force. For temperature control, there were symbols on the panel; a touch to the warmer or cooler symbol allowed for easy temperature control.

Clothes left in outside baskets, they entered the shower space. The seamstress activated the shower via the stone panel, producing a focused stream of warm water directly above them. The grime and dirt that had clung to the girl’s skin began to loosen, then fall, swirling down the drain in dark streams.

Noticing the layers of dirt, the seamstress turned the water warmer and grabbed a rough cloth from a nearby nook. She used it to scrub the dirt away, ensuring no spot was missed. But the seamstress tutted when not only dirt came off, but layers of flaky skin." You can't just rinse," she advised. "You've got to scrub to really get clean. Use warm water, scrub everywhere — behind ears, inside ears, under nails. That's where dirt likes to hide." The seamstress enunciated each point with every action.

By the time it was over, the girl felt raw.

After imparting her wisdom, the seamstress quickly but efficiently cleaned herself, following her own advice. Then, both now clean, they moved toward the door that led to the next part of their bathhouse visit.

Its wooden surface slick with condensation, the door opened with a smooth motion, unleashing a swift gush of steam that momentarily enveloped them. This initial rush of warmth tapered into a gentle swirl of vapor, carrying with it the delicate fragrances of lavender and chamomile emanating from the soaps and oils arranged along the room.

The seamstress opened a hinged lid and picked up a bottle. "This one," the seamstress explained, "is what makes this place special. It's crafted right here, with herbs from the local gardens."

The girl noticed the distinct, comforting scent that seemed to ease her thoughts.

The seamstress then proceeded to open each box and detailed each product's benefits. Lavender soap for calming, chamomile scrub for soothing, honey soap for sensitive skin, oatmeal for brightening, and aloe vera gel for healing and moisturizing. The girl could only listen, but she listened intently, reacting when she must, and expressing curiosity when needed, but there was genuine interest when experimenting with different combinations, finding which scents and textures pleased her most. The girl found herself drawn to the calming scent of lavender and the smooth feel of the honey soap on her skin.

Their conversation then meandered to a talk about their hair as they sat by the edge of the warm, mineral-rich spring that filled the center of the room. The seamstress showed the girl how to braid her hair in a way that would also absorb the steam's moisture, enhancing its natural softness. She learned quickly after a quick demonstration, and she braided the seamstress’ hair, and together, they dipped their braided hair into the water, watching it float and swirl.

As they relaxed by the spring, noticing their fingers had begun to prune from prolonged immersion. Clad in plush, white robes, they exited the private room, passing through the now-familiar tiled shower area that had welcomed them upon arrival.

When the seamstress noticed their fingers beginning to wrinkle from the prolonged immersion, she decided it was time to conclude their visit. They wrapped themselves in the plush, white robes provided by the bathhouse, then exited the private room, passing through the tiled shower area, then out the door.

Stepping into the main area of the bathhouse, the seamstress approached the attendant at the reception desk. "I wish we could've tried the herbal steam room and the stone walk therapy," she mentioned, a hint of regret in her voice. The attendant smiled.

The girl, wrapped comfortably in her robe, listened as the seamstress briefly discussed their visit. Their exchange was short, merely confirming their time had come to an end. They then made their way to the co-ed relaxation area.

The area featured comfortable seating areas, soft lighting, gentle music, and the subtle scent of eucalyptus and peppermint. They found the priest easily, still in his priest robes. He was reclining on a low, cushioned bench, immersed in a book

Upon seeing them, he looked up, his face breaking into a warm, welcoming smile. "There you are," he greeted them, his familiar calm instantly comforting the girl. He reached over to the shelf near him, then turned back to them.

Together, they stepped outside, making their way directly to the seamstress' shop. As they walked, the priest and the seamstress began speaking casually.

"Was it as refreshing for you as it was for me?" the seamstress asked.

The priest shook his head, saying that it wasn't his first visit, but it remained a cherished ritual.

Silence elapsed.

"Quite peaceful these days, isn't it?" remarked the seamstress.

The priest nodded. "Yes, the guilds and the Council have done well.”

Silence.

The girl impulsively said, "I heard more people are calling it the Gauntlet now. Why is it called that?”

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The seamstress shrugged. "Not sure, dear. It's just what I've heard."

The priest contemplated for a moment. "Well, it's a strong name, isn't it? Suggests both protection and challenge. Fitting for what it does."

"Did you ever serve at the Gauntlet, Father? I mean, it's such an important part of our peace, and I've read about it in textbooks, but firsthand accounts must be so much more... real."

The priest was taken aback for a moment, not expecting such a direct question from the girl. He paused, reflecting on his experiences. "Yes, I did spend some time there. It's a place of great importance, not just for the physical safety it provides, but for the unity it represents among the different factions."

"Are you strong, then?" the seamstress asked with a hint of teasing in her voice. She lifted an arm and pumped it in the air.

The priest smiled wryly. "Strength is more than just physical. It's about resilience, unity, and faith.”

Arriving at the seamstress' shop, she pulled out a key, the metal glinting in the lantern light, and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, they were greeted by the warm, inviting interior. The lanterns inside turned on, casting a soft illumination over the racks of clothing.

"We had quite the sale, but look, there's plenty left for you to choose from,” the seamstress announced.

"Is there anything I can help with?" the priest asked.

"Yes, actually," the seamstress replied. "Could you bring down a few boxes labeled ‘summer wear’? We might find something suitable for her there."

With a nod, the priest headed upstairs to fetch the requested item. Meanwhile, the seamstress focused on the girl, pulling out various pieces of clothing, explaining their fit and function.

As they went through the clothing, the girl reflected on their walk to the shop. Not once had they been stopped or approached. It seemed that the darkness had dampened her charm. A fatal weakness. A relief.

Soon, the seamstress and the girl were holding a towering stack of clothing, a mix of practical and special occasion wear. The priest returned, his arms laden with boxes, which added even more options to their pile. Among these were long-sleeved outfits and a few with veils, some intended for funerals, others for weddings

"It's not customary for one so young," the priest began, his tone grave as he eyed the bridal outfits.

"But fashion knows no age, Father, and every girl dreams of trying on a wedding dress just for the feel of it," the seamstress countered.

"Why so many bridal outfits?" the priest couldn't help but ask.

The seamstress waved off the concern. "Weddings, funerals—they're all part of life. And sometimes, families want their young ones to feel special on such occasions."

"I'm just curious about the styles. It's like trying on costumes, right?" the girl quickly said.

The seamstress nodded, her face breaking into a smile. "Exactly! It's all about exploring and having fun with fashion."

The priest, though hesitant, gave a nod. "As long as it brings you joy," he conceded, though an eye twitched seeing the funeral attire. He chose not to voice his worries, letting the matter rest.

The girl and the seamstress then headed to the changing room. The seamstress opened one of the doors to reveal a well-lit area, dominated by a large mirror that ran the length of one wall. "Need help with any of these?" the seamstress offered as she dumped the pile of clothing inside.

"No, thank you," the girl replied, stepping into the room alone and closing the door behind her.

Facing the mirror, she stared at her reflection with an intensity that felt alien. Her skin, previously masked by layers of grime, now radiated a clean glow, Her eyes sparkled. For so long, she had become accustomed to the feeling of her skin being tight and uncomfortable, the constant itchiness and the way dirt seemed to settle into her skin. Now, she could almost forget it all.

But she did not smile. She tried – she did. But she smiled with only her lips, and she didn’t feel it.

So, she opened her mouth. The reflection showed teeth stained a deep yellow, verging on black, some chipped, others missing.

The seamstress called out, "Have you put it on yet?"

That jolted her from her reflection. She was actually supposed to show each outfit? Anxiety mixed with anticipation; she was unaccustomed to being seen, truly seen.

Quickly, she chose a dress and stepped out, feeling a bit awkward but curious about the seamstress's reaction. The dress, like all the others, came with a veil — this one thin and gauzy where others were thick and opaque. The seamstress's approval, conveyed through a simple nod and smile, unexpectedly sent a thrill through her.

"Does this look right? I've never worn anything like this before,” the girl said.

"That looks lovely on you, dear. It suits you more than you know.”

As she continued trying on outfits, her initial excitement at the novelty of each dress began to fade. There were only so many differences in the simple fabrics for the bridal gowns and the more somber, draped ones for the funeral attire. Even seeing the sparkling bridal veils with all the tiny beads and soft lace did not excite her.

"I'll be right back," she said to the seamstress, who looked up from where she was tidying up the area around her sewing machine.

“You look lovely,” the seamstress.

The priest seemed engrossed in a book by the table. It appeared to be the same one he had at the bathhouse. As she passed him, a sharp stab of guilt pierced her. The thought that she had once considered casting him aside –

But was uprooting him from his life any better?

She thought about the trajectory of his life. He was a priest of the Order. He’d help others. He was just one of many priests. They were replaceable. She was not.

Shaking off the remorse, she reached into the bag, her fingers brushing past the apples to uncover the feast hidden beneath: slices of hard cheese wrapped in cloth, a small loaf of fresh bread still warm to the touch, dried figs and apricots, and a handful of walnuts and almonds.

"Would anyone like some?" she asked, spreading the offerings out for them to see.

The seamstress walked over, neck craning. "That would be lovely, dear."

The priest closed his book, joining them. He picked up a fig. "A moment of gratitude for our shared company and this food," he prayed.

They gathered around the small dinner table upstairs.

When they finished, the girl asked. "Is there somewhere here where I could summon something? I mean, somewhere open?" she asked the seamstress.

The seamstress paused, setting her sewing aside. She had started sewing when she saw her half-finished work on her bed. "Well, there's the old clearing behind the shop. No one goes there much. It's quiet, secluded."

From the moment she discovered her unique ability, the girl's mind had been swirling with possibilities, particularly the idea of summoning. She had mulled over various strategies, but the truth remained that theory needed to be tested in practice. Now, armed with her veil as a means to mask her charm, she felt a newfound confidence. No longer did she fear being perceived as an enticing morsel by whatever entities she might call forth.

She lacked typical lures for a summoning ritual, such as exotic essences or magical herbs. However, eyeing the leftovers from their meal, she thought they might just suffice. Among the snacks were honeyed nuts that, while sounding appealing, had turned slightly bitter with time. Not exactly spoiled, but not as enticing as they were meant to be.

In the moonlit clearing, the girl scattered the nuts in a circle, then stood at its center. She closed her eyes, focusing, and began the chant she'd learned. It was a simple invocation, meant for lesser spirits.