Dark Dragon: The Summoned Hero Is A Villain

Chapter 287: The Master Tailor

Nigel strutted into the room with the air of a man who knew perfectly well how important he was, wheeling in a rack overflowing with garments of varying shades and fabrics.

The clothes swayed gently as he maneuvered the rack to the center of the room, humming an overly dramatic tune.

"My, my," he said, looking around as if he was inspecting a crime scene. "This place looks... the same. Should I call it minimalistic?"

"I wanted to respect your choices, so I didn’t say anything last time, but I can see you’ve decided to stick to the ’exiled prince who gave up on interior design’ aesthetic. Bold choice."

Noah, seated at his desk, looked up dryly. "It’s a dorm room, not a palace."

Nigel clasped his hands behind his back, taking a slow, theatrical turn about the room. "Yes, yes, of course. The kind of simplicity that reminds me of the city guards’ prison cells. I suppose it helps you think."

"Though one could at least hang something on these dreadful walls. An inspirational quote, perhaps? ’The path to greatness is paved with proper tailoring.’"

Noah stood, sighing. "You didn’t come here to critique my walls."

"No," Nigel said, eyes twinkling. "I came to rescue them from despair."

He snapped his fingers, rolling the rack closer. "Now, let’s talk about the coronation. A delicate occasion."

"Everyone wants to look impressive, but not too impressive. That means you must strike the balance between modest dignity and quiet authority."

"The ones who simply have to wear their military uniforms? Lucky bastards. No choices to make, and no pressure. But you, dear boy, must dress."

He began rifling through the rack, muttering to himself. "Hmm... black, of course, is timeless. And fortunately, it complements that brooding expression you insist on keeping."

Noah raised an eyebrow. "You’re very generous today."

Nigel grinned without looking up. "It’s part of my charm."

He held up a set of clothes and turned, measuring Noah with his eyes. "Right. We’ll start with this. Black formal attire, tailored to suggest dignity without shouting for attention."

"We wouldn’t want the nobles eyeing you throughout the ceremony for outshining them, would we?"

From the rack, he drew out a neatly pressed shirt, black trousers, a waistcoat, and a long black tailcoat.

"Put these on," he said, thrusting them into Noah’s hands.

Noah sighed again but did as told. Nigel used the moment to rearrange a few items on the desk and tut at the layer of dust that had dared to exist there.

When Noah was done, Nigel turned, ready to deliver a cutting remark, but instead paused, appraising him critically. "Hmm. Acceptable. Almost impressive."

He walked in a slow circle around Noah, tugging at the sleeves, adjusting the waistcoat, and straightening the collar.

"The proportions are right, but... no, no, no. This tailcoat isn’t doing you any favors."

"I can’t tell the difference," Noah said flatly.

"Of course, you can’t," Nigel said. "That’s why I’m here."

"The difference between looking like a man attending a royal coronation and looking like a man attending his own funeral is all in the tailcoat."

He turned back to the rack and, with the air of an artist in the midst of inspiration, pulled out another piece, a soft grey tailcoat with subtle silver stitching along the seams.

"Try this one."

Noah obeyed, slipping off the black coat and replacing it with the grey. The fit was near perfect, hugging his torso without restricting movement.

Nigel’s eyes lit up.

"There," he said triumphantly, stepping back with satisfaction. "Now you look like someone who belongs in a hall of power, not the dungeon beneath it."

Noah gave him a flat look. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Nigel grinned. "As you should. My compliments are sincere, most of the time."

He turned back to the rack, plucking a folded piece of silk from the shelf. "Now, for the finishing touch, a cravat."

"Black is too severe, and white is too bridal... ah, here." He held up a deep silver one.

"This will do. It picks up the tone of the tailcoat and adds sophistication without making you look like a peacock."

He stepped close, tying it deftly around Noah’s neck. "There. A touch of elegance. You might even convince people you enjoy formal events."

"Let’s not go that far," Noah said dryly.

Nigel chuckled, stepping back to admire his work. "Almost perfect. One last thing."

He crouched beside the rack, produced a pair of polished black leather boots, and gestured towards them.

"Footwear. We wouldn’t want you going barefooted. Or worse, in a random pair of shoes."

Noah slipped into the boots, tugging the cuffs of his trousers down neatly. Nigel clapped his hands once, smiling in satisfaction.

"Excellent. A nice and clean fit, with just enough authority to make others second-guess their importance. If anyone at that coronation tries to look better than you without being ostentatious, they’ll fail magnificently."

Noah turned towards the mirror, studying his reflection.

The man looking back was someone else. Someone who looked like he’d been born into wealth.

Nigel adjusted his own cufflinks, pretending not to watch Noah’s reaction. "Well?"

Noah met his own eyes in the mirror, then nodded once. "It’ll do."

Nigel smirked. "That’s the spirit."

He patted the rack fondly, then wheeled it towards the door. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go back to my job of trying to stop idiots from making fools of themselves with their fashion choices."

"Try not to wrinkle anything before the day you need it. And for heaven’s sake, don’t spill tea on yourself before or after."

"I’ll try to contain my enthusiasm," Noah muttered.

Nigel gave a mock bow, moustache twitching with amusement. "Good lad. Break hearts, win wars, et cetera. I’ll see myself out."

With that, he whisked the rack through the doorway and disappeared down the hall, humming again as the sound of rolling wheels faded away.

Noah stood there a while longer, staring at his reflection.

For the first time, he almost looked like someone who belonged among the nobility of Camelot.

He smirked faintly, straightened the cravat, and nodded once.

"Not bad," he said quietly.