((Before this goes out, a few words and two things from me.
I plan to revise this chapter as an interlude and get this one on RR, people won't get all the bra texture and such from the previous three chapters, just see the results and have to fill the gaps themselves.
Second thing, the current twenty chapters ahead on patreon, I'm going to make some small tweaks. To explain, I always wanted Alric to fall into a bit of a funk, I won't call it depression because that's a very serious term. This was from some things falling into place in his head while he was focused on making good beer, those would be the death of craft brewing, the fact that reliable alcohol lead to the formation of the arena, unsure if he has improved this world at all and lastly, having no strong means of giving back or being philanthropic. All of that sounds like good character stuff, it did in my head too, but the pacing of the novel means this is dragging far too long, the line from the king of "I like you brewer." is meant to be a turning point, it still is, but I can't explain that part without spoilers. What has happened though, is Alric has become a bit too passive for a bit too long, Seren was meant to be pushing him forward, that was intended but its lasted far too long. He's become a passenger in his own story which is fine for a few chapters, not over twenty.So the story structure won't change, I don't think it will need a re-read. I'll just be tweaking dialogue slightly to make Alric slightly more irritable and pushing back on "why am I proving myself constantly?". I do apologise for this, I do think its a product of writing web fiction. Anyway, do enjoy the interlude and thank you again for you support, I really can't thank you enough.))Seren had known the secret would not hold.
She had not known it wouldn’t make it till the end of the week.
The morning had begun with a sensible plan. They were going down to the brewery early, because the king was coming and Alric had developed that particular tightness about the eyes which meant he was either planning six things at once or trying not to throw himself into a barrel. Brannick was accompanying them, because today he was acting as one of Alric’s guards, a thing he had accepted with such quiet pride that Seren had decided not to tease him about it until later.
There were two other guards with them as well, both men from Alric’s usual rotation, both far too amused by everything already.
Alric wore his suit.
Vale had it right, it was unusual but also very stylish. It sat neatly on him, even though he kept checking the cuffs as if they could not be trusted. He looked respectable, prepared, and deeply unhappy about being both.
“Is the king early by habit,” Alric said, mostly to himself. “Or late by power? Hmm... We need the tasting room checked again.”
“I shall see to it,” Seren said.
Alric nodded, studying the cobbles as he walked, his mind far away.
Brannick made a low sound that was almost a laugh. One of the guards coughed into his fist. The other looked at the sky with great interest.
They had just turned into the street near Terven’s tailor shop. Seren missed a step, she would have preferred the term ‘her pace suffered a brief administrative failure’.
There was a crowd outside Terven’s. A large crowd. A crowd made almost entirely of women.
Women in working aprons. Women in good cloaks. Women with baskets. Women with servants. Two women who were clearly pretending not to be noble and failing because their gloves had more embroidery than most people’s wedding gowns. Three women stood near the door arguing in whispers. One was holding a folded scrap of cloth like a military plan. Another kept gesturing at her own bodice with the intensity of a merchant discussing grain weights.
Seren’s stomach sank. Alric did not notice. He was still looking at the cobblestones thinking deeply.
“If the king asks about production,” he said to himself, “I can answer that. If he asks why the brewery smells better than half the city, I can’t answer that politely.”
A woman near the tailor’s door saw them. Her gaze moved from Seren, to Brannick, to Alric. Her face lit seeing Alric.
Seren’s stomach continued downward and considered founding a settlement near her ankles.
The woman smiled at Alric.
It was a broad, delighted, private smile, as though he had handed her a warm blanket in winter and then forgotten he had done it.
Alric kept walking. Another woman noticed.
This one was older, with flour on her sleeves and a grin that said she had survived four husbands and found all of them wanting. She lifted both hands, cupped her breasts in Alric’s direction, and gave him a triumphant nod.
Seren made a sound. It was small. It was not dignified.
Alric turned his head slightly. “hmm?”
“Nothing,” Seren said at once.
Brannick’s eyes had gone very still. The guards had seen. Both of them had seen.
One made a strangled noise. The other scoffed, once, sharply, as if his own lungs had betrayed him.
Alric frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Seren said. “Did we get a note about who was coming?”
“Huh? It’s the king and queen surely?”
“I don’t think the queen will come, it’s risky for both royals to go out together.”
They passed the tailor’s shop. Several women watched Alric go by.
One whispered something to another. The other covered her mouth and laughed. A third looked at Seren with open envy, which was unfair on several levels, most of which Seren did not have time to file properly.
Alric, still entirely unaware of the collapse of secrecy occurring around his person, continued speaking.
“The main worry is whether the king treats this as a royal inspection or a social visit. If it is an inspection, I need figures. If it is a social visit, I need charm. I have figures.”
“Uh… yes we do have figures.” Seren said, distracted by the nearby women.
The guard on the left made another scoffing sound.
Alric looked back. “Do you need to clear your throat?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve done it twice.”
“Street dust, sir.”
Brannick’s mouth twitched. Seren wanted to turn around and walk back home. Unfortunately, the city had already moved forward without her permission.
By the time they reached the brewery, Seren had seen three more signs of it. A washerwoman adjusting a new front strap beneath her bodice with no shame whatsoever.
A young apprentice tailor hurrying past with a rolled pattern under one arm. The thing had spread. Like spilled beer across an uneven floor.
And, like spilled beer, every attempt to step around it only made the matter worse.
Terven, apparently, had not kept the secret. Seren had not expected him to, because Terven was a tailor, not a tomb. Every woman who tried one demanded to know where the idea had come from. Every assistant who saw the pattern understood at once that this was not a private oddity but a war against discomfort. Every apprentice with eyes and ambition had taken the shape apart in their head and rebuilt it with cheaper cloth, different straps, firmer panels, softer linings, or far too much lace.
By noon, Seren had heard reports.
The river district had a plain working-woman version already, made in thick cloth and tied firmly enough to survive laundry, market work, and possibly a minor siege.
The noble quarter had silk-lined versions, because of course they did. Seren suspected one of them had pearl buttons, which defeated the point so thoroughly that it circled around into poetry.
The riding yards had requested a version that did not shift on horseback.
The midwives had begun discussing nursing versions.
It worked, and women knew it worked, and once women knew that breathing, walking, bending, working, riding, fighting, and existing could be made less miserable, no power in the city could return them to polite suffering.
Not even shame. Especially not shame.
By late afternoon, the worst of the royal visit had passed, leaving behind the strange, hollow quiet that followed major events.
Seren was in the new house’s common room which had become the natural gathering place, because it had chairs, walls, and beer that no one had to pay for.
Seren had entered with the intention of sitting for one peaceful moment.
This intention died immediately.
Brannick was there, still in guard leathers, sitting near two of Alric’s regular guards. A handful of adventurers had joined them, including two women Seren had seen around the guild before. One was broad-shouldered, scarred across the chin, and treating the tankard she was drinking from like it owed her rent. The other had her boots stretched out toward the hearth and the satisfied posture of someone who had recently won a fight or a bet.
This was Brannick’s world. Seren reminded herself of that.
It was not her natural place. She preferred order, ledgers, controlled rooms, and problems that could be placed in columns. Brannick belonged here, among laughter, battered leather, old scars, blunt jokes, and people who could discuss knife wounds with the same tone Moreen used for tea blends.
She loved him. Therefore, she would endure. She moved to take the seat beside him, one of Alric’s guards moved around the table to make room for her. A gesture she appreciated.
Brannick looked at her, and his expression softened in that quiet way that still made her chest feel too full.
“That was a long day?” he asked.
“Longer than several winters, I may have aged.”
He passed her a tankard. She took it. The beer was excellent. Of course it was.
That was the trouble with Alric. Even his disasters tended to come with good beer.
The female adventurer with the boots near the hearth stretched, rolled one shoulder, then laughed loudly.
“I’m telling you, I can breathe.”
The other woman lifted her cup. “That’s because you’re not wrapped like a festival ham anymore.”
“I fought in it this morning.”
“You fought in it?”
“Practice yard. No stabbing pain here.” She gestured at her ribs with the bluntness of someone who had never feared a social consequence in her life. “No shifting, no pinching, no binding up so tight I see my ancestors every time I bend. Best sparring o' my life.”
One of the guards leaned forward. “You wore it under armor?”
“Under padding,” she said. “I’ll test armor tomorrow.”
“Is that safe?”
She gave him a flat look. “Safer than the old way.”
The scarred female adventurer nodded fiercely. “The old bindings are torture but we only know that now.”
Seren took a careful drink and looked into her cup. Perhaps if she stared hard enough, she could drown herself in foam.
“You should get one,” the hearth adventurer said to the second.
“I’m getting two.”
“Get the reinforced side panel piece.”
“I heard there’s a front-fastening one.”
At this, their heads turned toward Seren. Seren froze.
“Miss Seren,” The stretched out adventurer began, because apparently, they were all doing this now, “is the front-fastening version better? Also can I just call you Seren?”
Seren had stared at her. The girl had waited with genuine seriousness. Seren was forced to answer.
“It depends on what you're wearing,” she had said, with a calm she did not feel. “And if you have help fastening the back. Just Seren is fine”
The adventurer nodded as if receiving wisdom from a temple.
The second female adventurer leaned forward. “You had one of the first, didn’t you?”
Seren closed her eyes. Brannick made the mistake of laughing. It was a small laugh. Warm. Not cruel. She couldn’t even blame him.
She opened one eye and looked at him. He immediately attempted innocence. It did not suit him.
“I had,” Seren said carefully, “a fitting.”
The women made interested noises. The men made interested noises of a different and far less safe kind.
Seren pointed at them without looking. “No.”
One guard lifted both hands. “I said nothing.”
“Bwahahaha! I’m Molly just so you know, never seen anyone shut up Simon this fast before.” The female adventurer with the scar laughed hard enough to spill beer onto her knee.
“It came from Terven’s, right?” the stretched one asked.
Several people answered at once.
“Terven’s.”
“Every tailor has it now.”
“My cousin got one near the fish market.”
“The noble ladies are calling them support stays.”
“That’s a terrible name.”
“That’s a rich name.”
“It needs a better one.”
Seren felt the danger arrive. It entered the room like a cat with wet paws. Molly asked the fatal question.
“Where did it come from, though?”
The room shifted. A silence formed, but not an empty one. It was full of grins.
Seren stared at her cup. Brannick stared at the table. The two guards looked at each other.
The female adventurer with the reinforced version smiled slowly. “The brewer did it, we all know.” She said raising her drink at the doorway heading deeper into the building.
Molly immediately nodded. “No one else could do it so fast.”
The room broke.
Not loudly at first. It began with a few snorts, a few shoulders shaking, a badly hidden laugh behind a cup. Then the absurdity bloomed properly.
“The brewer,” the scarred adventurer repeated, delighted. “The man makes beer and better bosoms.”
“Don’t say that,” Seren said.
No one heard her, or worse, everyone did and chose to continue.
“He improves morale in every district.”
“He supports the working class.”
“He supports the noble class too, if the silk rumours are true.”
“Supports the adventurers,” said the woman by the hearth, thumping her own chest once with pride. “And I’ll drink to that.”
Cups lifted, not from the guards who were technically on duty, they raised fists. Seren did not lift hers.
Brannick did. She looked at him. He put it down slowly but he had to bite his lips.
“Traitor,” she murmured.
“I didn’t drink.”
The taller guard who had escorted Alric today leaned back in his chair, grinning. “If the king gives him a title after today, it can’t be Lord Alric of the Brewery.”
“No,” said the scarred adventurer at once. “Too plain.”
“Lord Alric of the Barrel?”
“Already sounds like beer.”
“Lord Foam?”
“Sounds ill.”
“Lord Support,” someone offered.
The room considered this. Seren wished, with sudden religious intensity, for the ceiling to collapse.
The woman by the hearth snapped her fingers. “Lord Lift.”
Silence. Then devastation. The room roared.
Brannick’s face broke before he could stop it. He turned away, shoulders shaking.
Seren pressed her lips together but her chest shook.
The scarred adventurer slapped the table. “Lord Lift!”
“No,” Seren said, but her voice had weakened.
One of the guards was wiping his eyes. “His banner can be two cups held high.”
“That is vile,” Seren said.
“Two barrels,” Brannick said, betraying her fully.
The room howled again.
Seren turned on him. “You are supposed to be my comfort in this.”
“I am,” he said, still laughing. “I’m comforting you by making it worse where you can see it.”
She gave him a mock glare.
He leaned closer, smiling. “It is a little funny.”
His eyes flicked over her face. Her mouth betrayed her. Only at one corner. It barely counted.
Unfortunately, Brannick saw. His smile widened. Seren covered her face with one hand. The room continued without mercy.
“No, no,” said Molly, now standing as if delivering judgement before a council. “Lord Lift is good, but it’s not noble enough.”
“What’s noble enough?”
“Lord Lyft,” she paused for dramatic effect, “The Bosom Baron.”
Seren made a sound into her hand. Brannick put his head down on the table.
The guards lost all discipline.
Molly raised her cup high. “To the Bosom Baron!”
Several cups went up.
“To Lord Lift!”
Seren lowered her hand and found the entire room bright with laughter. Not cruel laughter. Cruel laughter she could have hated. This was delight, relief, gratitude wearing a ridiculous hat.
Seren wondered not for the first time how everything Alric did ended up turning so absurd as well as absurdly profitable.
The adventurer by the hearth was still grinning, one hand resting proudly against her ribs.
“I don’t care what you call him,” she said. “If I can fight tomorrow and still breathe after, the man deserves a statue.”
“A statue?” the tall guard asked.
“With excellent posture,” Added Brannick to another round of laughter.
Seren looked at him again. He looked back, eyes far too warm, far too amused, far too pleased with himself. Seren closed her eyes, giving Branick the smugness. It was pretty funny.
The laughter around them softened into separate conversations. Beer flowed. Someone began arguing about whether reinforced stitching should count as armor. Someone else claimed that if Alric could solve boots next, the city would surrender to him willingly.
Seren sat back and let the noise move around her. The day had been too full. The week had been impossible.
A private embarrassment had become a citywide improvement. A gift had become a pattern. A pattern had become trade. Trade had become gossip. Gossip had become gratitude.
Alric had no idea.
He would not be thinking about the fact that half the women in the city now associated him with structural relief. He would not want credit. That was another irritation.
If Alric had strutted, if he had boasted, if he had accepted praise with even the smallest trace of smugness, she could point to something, but he never did. He would hate this however. He would turn red, stammer, deny responsibility, attempt to redirect credit to Terven, to Gwyn, to cloth, to straps, to anything.
And then some woman would thank him sincerely. And he would look as if someone had struck him with a kindness.
Later, when the cups had emptied and the jokes had begun circling back on themselves, Seren stood.
Brannick looked up. “Leaving?”
“To save what remains of my mind.”
“Do you want me to walk you?”
She looked toward the adventurers, the guards, the warm room, the free beer, and the place where Brannick fit so naturally.
“No,” she said. “Stay. This is your sort of terrible.”
Seren left before the room could develop another toast.
The hallway outside was cooler and quieter. She walked toward her room slowly, one hand trailing along the wall. The house still felt new, though they had already filled parts of it with papers, bottles, tools, and the strong smell of wine. Somewhere below, someone laughed again.
“Count Cuppage!” came another declaration from Molly.
More laughter followed. Seren paused on the stairs having to giggle herself. She imagined telling Alric. She imagined his face.
She decided, with great care, not to tell him. She would never mention his socks again, but she could feign ignorance around this.
Some problems, Seren decided, deserved time to mature before being placed before Mister Alric.
This one, unfortunately, already had support.