"Her Highness requests your presence at the Royal Palace tomorrow evening for dinner."

Oliver nodded slowly. "Dinner, huh? Not an interrogation? Not a meeting of nobles to glare at us?"

"No, sir," the knight said stiffly. "Her Highness only wishes to express gratitude and present official rewards. You are all invited."

He bowed, turned sharply, and disappeared into the crowd.

Isolde smirked. "Dinner at the palace, huh? Not bad, hero."

Ariana looked nervous. "…We have to behave properly… right?"

Oliver scratched his cheek. "Well, I don't think they'd throw us in prison if we mess up the wrong spoon."

Seraphine calmly added:

"Noted. Palace etiquette required. I will analyze and replicate optimal noble behavior."

Ariana: "…that is somehow more terrifying."

******

Since the summons was for the next evening, Oliver suggested they spend the day preparing.

"We can't go dressed like this," he said, gesturing at their travel-worn outfits. "We'll get thrown out before reaching the gate."

Ariana nodded quickly. "Y-yes, yes, definitely. We need proper outfits."

Isolde stretched. "Fine. Let's get it done."

Then Oliver looked at Seraphine.

"Especially you. You're still wearing Ariana's spare robes."

Seraphine looked down at herself.

"Statement: this garment provides adequate protection and societal camouflage."

"It makes you look like an orthodox priestess escaping from church school," Isolde deadpanned.

Ariana sighed, rubbing her forehead. "And we only have so many robes. She needs her own outfits, Oliver."

Oliver coughed. "Yeah… and… honestly… she shouldn't walk around in whatever she wore when she first transformed."

Ariana blinked. "…What did she wear?"

Isolde burst out laughing.

"Oh, you should've seen Oliver's face," she said, smirking. "He nOlivery died when she emerged from that cube completely—"

Oliver clapped a hand over her mouth. "STOP. Stop right there."

Seraphine blinked.

"Clarification: my original form was a standard humanoid base shell. Clothing was not included in core construction."

Ariana's face turned bright red. "S-So you were—!!"

Oliver threw his hands up.

"Okay! Enough! We're buying clothes. Fancy ones!"

****

The fashion district of the capital was on another level entirely.

Mannequins in enchanted dresses stood behind glass windows. Seamstresses used threads infused with minor magic. Velvet, silk, dyed beast furs—luxuries Oliver had never seen even in his previous life.

"Whoa…" Ariana whispered.

"We're going here?" Oliver muttered, looking at the price tags.

Isolde looped her arm through his. "Well, we can't exactly wear potato sacks to a dinner with a princess."

Seraphine stopped in front of a window, staring at a mannequin wearing a flowing white dress embroidered with gold threads.

"Observation: this design maximizes aesthetic value. Request: permission to try."

The three turned to her in sync.

Oliver sighed. "Fine. Try anything you like."

That was a mistake.

*****

It began with Seraphine stepping out of the fitting room wearing a high-class gown that looked like something straight out of a divine festival.

She turned once. Her movements were fluid—almost too perfect.

Isolde stared. "Why does she look good in EVERYTHING?"

Ariana groaned. "She's like… an AI supermodel…"

Then came a sleek black noble dress.

Then a red battle-dress.

Then a modern-style tunic and skirt combination.

Then a winter fur coat that made Oliver choke on his own spit.

Every single outfit made her look gorgeous.

Oliver muttered, "What kind of cheat code is this…"

Seraphine turned.

"Inquiry: Master, which outfit optimizes palace etiquette and your personal preference?"

All three stared at him.

Oliver panicked.

"Uh—th-the white one! The first one!"

Seraphine nodded calmly.

"Preference acknowledged."

Ariana tugged his ear. "Stop choosing based on instinct!"

Isolde cackled. "No, let him. It's entertaining."

The final decision was made. Seraphine chose an elegant white-and-gold gown that made her look like a living statue of some forgotten goddess.

"That looks perfect" Isolde said clasping her hands.

"Why wouldn't it? I was the one who selected it?" Oliver said smirking.

"Is that so? Then I think I may need your expert eyes in selecting appropriate outfits for me too." Isolde said with a mischievous smile on her face.

"What do you mean?" Oliver asked sensing a different meaning in her words.

She didn't reply and glanced at Ariana and Seraphine, who were still comparing two different silk gloves at the counter, then turned back to Oliver.

"Sera, take Ariana and go look at the jewelry section. We'll catch up."

Seraphine nodded instantly. "Command acknowledged."

Ariana opened her mouth to protest, saw Isolde's expression, and shut it again. "R-right. Jewelry. Come on, Sera…"

Their footsteps faded.

Isolde grabbed Oliver's wrist. "Come."

He barely had time to mutter, "What are you—" before she yanked him through the velvet curtain into the largest changing suite.

The door clicked shut. A soft rune on the wall glowed—privacy ward activated.

The room was bigger than their inn bedroom: full-length mirrors on three walls, a plush chaise lounge, and warm lantern light that made skin look golden.

Isolde dropped the stack of clothes on the chaise. Oliver's eyes snagged on the top item: black fishnet stockings and something that looked suspiciously like a garter belt.

He raised an eyebrow. "Palace dinner, remember?"

"You'll know soon enough," she said, voice low, and pushed him down onto the chaise.

Then she started undressing.

No teasing, no slow seduction—just efficient, confident movements that somehow felt dirtier because of it. Boots kicked off. Belt unbuckled. Shirt peeled away. Skirt dropped. Within seconds she stood in nothing but white lace panties and a matching bra, pale skin and perfect curves on full display.

Oliver's mouth went dry.

Isolde cocked a hip, striking a deliberate pose. "Like what you see?"

"You already know the answer," he croaked.

She laughed softly and picked up the first dress—a sleeveless white number with a low back and a sash that tied just above her ass. She slipped it on in one smooth motion. The fabric hugged every line, her breasts straining against the neckline, side-boob generously on display.

She turned, checking herself in the mirror, then looked back at him. "Well?"

"Perfect," he managed.

"Good. Keeping it."

Second outfit: crisp white blouse, tiny navy skirt, long mage-style overcoat, and—because Oliver had grabbed them earlier—black thigh-high stockings. She rolled them up slowly, making sure he watched every inch disappear under the skirt.

She twirled once. The coat flared dramatically.

"I feel like I could conquer a kingdom in this."

"You already do," he muttered.

She flashed a wicked grin.

Then came the final "outfit."

Isolde let the coat slide off her shoulders and stood completely naked, holding two scraps of black lace in her hands.

A bra—except the cups stopped just below her nipples, leaving pink peaks completely exposed.

And panties—if you could call them that. A thin strap around her hips, another between her cheeks, and a deliberate gap right at the front that framed her smooth, bare pussy.

She tilted her head, mock-innocent. "My dear master picked these out just for you."

Oliver didn't even get a chance to answer.

The second the lace settled against her skin, he was on her—mouth latching onto one exposed nipple, hand cupping the other breast hard. Isolde gasped, back arching, fingers threading into his hair.

"Fuck—straight to it, huh?" she breathed, but her voice was already shaky.

He sucked hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, while his free hand slid down her stomach and cupped her through the open crotch of the panties. She was already soaked.

"You are dripping," he growled against her skin.

"Whose fault is—" Her words cut off into a sharp moan as two of his fingers pushed inside her with zero resistance.

The mirrors reflected everything: Isolde's flushed face, Oliver on his knees, mouth on her breast, fingers pumping in and out, her thighs already trembling.

She yanked his head up by the hair and crushed her mouth to his, kissing him filthy and desperate while grinding down on his hand.

"Don't stop," she hissed against his lips. "Make me come before they get back."

Oliver added a third finger, curled them just right, thumb circling her clit. Thirty seconds later her legs buckled; he caught her with an arm around her waist as she came hard, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the cry.

Her whole body shuddered through the aftershocks, breath hot against his neck.

She pulled back just enough to smirk, voice hoarse.

"Good boy."

Then, casual as anything, she stepped away, peeled off the ruined lingerie, and started pulling the modest white dress back on—like she hadn't just come all over his fingers in a public changing room.

Oliver sat there, painfully hard and stunned.

Isolde glanced back, buttoning the dress with steady hands.

"We're buying all three outfits," she said sweetly. "And the black set. Obviously."

She leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, and whispered, "You can fuck me in it later."

Then she slipped out of the curtain, calling brightly, "Ariana, Sera—we're done!"

Oliver stayed on the chaise a full minute longer, trying to remember how breathing worked.

****

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