Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 181: The Queen of Couture

The peace following the defeat of the Void lasted exactly twelve hours.

At 9:00 AM the next morning, Primrose was awakened not by an alarm, nor by an assassination attempt, but by the sound of fabric ripping.

She stumbled into the sitting room to find Ophelia standing in front of a full-length mirror. The ancient fox ancestor was currently wearing one of Primrose’s silk court dresses.

Or rather, she was wearing it. She had ripped the sleeves off, torn the skirt to knee-length, and used a curtain sash as a belt.

"This is unacceptable," Ophelia declared, looking at her reflection. "It’s too floofy. I feel like a cake decoration. How do you fight in this? How do you run?"

"We don’t usually run in court dresses, Grandma," Primrose yawned, leaning against the doorframe. "We walk. Regally."

"Boring," Ophelia scoffed. She kicked a pile of petticoats across the room. "In the First Age, we wore battle-leathers. Tunic, trousers, boots. Practical. Aerodynamic. This..." She gestured to the remaining silk. "This is a prison made of lace."

She turned to Primrose, her blue eyes blazing with a new mission.

"I want to go to the market. I want to see what the modern woman wears. And I want trousers. With pockets."

Primrose sighed. She looked at her schedule. 10:00 AM: Meeting with Architects. 11:00 AM: Budget Review.

"Cancel everything," Primrose told the empty air, where a Shadow Servant was hiding. "We’re going shopping."

The Gilded District of the city had miraculously survived the war mostly intact. It was the high-end fashion hub of the Beast Empire, lined with boutiques, tailors, and jewelers.

When the Royal Carriage pulled up, the street went silent.

Primrose stepped out, wearing a sensible day dress.

Rurik stepped out, grumbling, wearing his Warlord armor because he refused to wear "civilian rags."

Leonora stepped out, looking effortlessly chic in a tailored lion-skin jacket.

And then Ophelia stepped out.

She was wearing the mutilated silk dress, combat boots she had stolen from a guard, and sunglasses she had found in Jax’s room.

"So much beige," Ophelia critiqued, looking at the noblewomen walking by. "Why is everyone afraid of color? Did the Void eat the dye, too?"

"It’s the current trend, Lady Ophelia," Leonora explained diplomatically. "Minimalism is very popular in the capital."

"Minimalism is for people who can’t afford personality," Ophelia stated. She pointed a gloved finger at the largest, most expensive-looking shop on the corner. "The Velvet Rose. Let’s start there. Rurik, you carry the bags."

"I am a Warlord of the North," Rurik growled. "I crush skulls. I do not carry shopping bags."

"You do if you want me to tell you where the First Wolf hid his secret stash of moonshine," Ophelia whispered loudly.

Rurik’s ears perked up. He snatched a basket from a passerby. "Lead the way, Ma’am."

The Dressing Room Disaster

The shop assistants at The Velvet Rose nearly fainted when they realized who had walked in. The Silver Sovereign and the Living Legend.

"We are honored!" the shop owner, a nervous Deer-Kin, squeaked. "Please, everything is on the house! We have the latest spring collection—"

"I want leather," Ophelia interrupted, browsing a rack of pastel gowns with disdain. "And red. Blood red. Or maybe a nice electric blue."

She pulled out a jacket. It was meant for a man—a riding coat made of dark crimson wyvern leather.

"This," Ophelia said, holding it up. "But tighter. And cut the tails off."

"M-My Lady," the shopkeeper stammered. "That is a gentleman’s hunting coat. The ladies usually prefer the chiffon wraps..."

Ophelia stared at him. Her eyes flashed with the pressure of the ocean depths.

"Do I look like a lady who wraps herself in chiffon?"

"I will get the scissors," the shopkeeper squeaked.

For the next two hours, the dressing room was a war zone. Clothes flew over the top of the stall.

"Too itchy!"

"Where are the pockets? Why do women not get pockets in this century? Where do you keep your knives?"

"I look like a grandmother. I know I am one, but I don’t need to dress like I’ve given up on life!"

Finally, the curtain swept open.

Primrose gasped. Leonora nodded in approval. Even Rurik stopped sulking.

Ophelia stepped out.

She was wearing black leather trousers, custom-fitted in five minutes by a terrified tailor, the cropped crimson wyvern jacket, and a white silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar. She looked dangerous. She looked modern. She looked like a rock star who had just killed a dragon.

"Better," Ophelia decided, admiring herself in the mirror. She did a spin. "I can kick in this. I can run. And look."

She shoved her hands into her pants.

"Pockets."

"You look terrifying," Primrose smiled. "King Etienne would have fainted."

"Etienne liked it when I looked scary," Ophelia winked. "He had a thing for dangerous women. Why do you think he liked you?"

She turned to the shopkeeper. "I’ll take it. In every color. And throw in some boots. These guard boots smell like feet."

Ophelia wasn’t done. Having secured her own wardrobe, her eyes began to wander.

They landed on Rurik.

The massive Wolf Warlord was leaning against a pillar, looking bored and imposing in his battered iron armor.

"You," Ophelia pointed.

Rurik flinched. "Me?"

"You look like a walking scrap heap," Ophelia criticized, walking around him. "Iron plates? Fur capes? It’s so... First Age. You’re a handsome wolf. Why are you hiding under a rusted trash can?"

"This armor has seen a hundred battles!" Rurik protested. "It commands respect!"

"It commands a tetanus shot," Ophelia countered. "Leonora, get me a suit. Size: Mountain."

"With pleasure," Leonora grinned evilly.

"No," Rurik backed away. "No suits. I hate buttons. They pop off when I flex."

"Then don’t flex," Ophelia ordered. "Just for one hour. I want to see what you look like when you aren’t covered in blood and mud."

Fifteen minutes later, Rurik emerged from the changing room.

He looked miserable. He was tugging at the collar of a navy blue velvet suit. The jacket was tight across his massive shoulders, threatening to rip at the seams. He wasn’t wearing a tie, he had eaten it in frustration, but the shirt was crisp and white.

He looked... dapper. In a bouncer-at-a-high-end-club sort of way.

"I can’t breathe," Rurik wheezed. "My neck is in a vice."

"You look dashing," Leonora said, her eyes widening slightly. "Very... dignified."

Rurik stopped complaining. He looked at Leonora. "You think?"

"Definitely," Leonora nodded. "Blue suits you."

Rurik straightened up. He puffed out his chest. A button flew off and hit the mirror with a ping, cracking the glass.

"Well," Rurik grunted, smoothing his lapel. "If the Princess insists. I suppose I can wear this ’civilian rag’ for dinner."

"See?" Ophelia nudged Primrose. "Men are simple. Tell them they look pretty and they’ll wear anything."

They left the shop with enough bags to fill the carriage twice over. Rurik was carrying twenty boxes, looking very stylish in his suit despite the manual labor.

As they walked down the street, enjoying the afternoon sun, Ophelia stopped by a jewelry cart.

She reached for a silver hairpin shaped like a wave.

"Pretty," she murmured.

Primrose watched her.

As Ophelia’s fingers touched the silver, her hand flickered.

For a second, the hand became transparent. The sunlight passed right through it, hitting the velvet cushion beneath.

Ophelia froze. She pulled her hand back quickly, shoving it into her new pocket.

She looked around. Rurik and Leonora were arguing about shoes. They hadn’t seen it.

But Primrose had.

Primrose walked up to her. She didn’t say anything. She just reached into her own pocket, pulled out a handful of gold coins, and bought the hairpin.

She gently tucked it into Ophelia’s white hair.

"It matches your eyes," Primrose said softly.

Ophelia looked at her. The sass, the fire, the energy all softened for a moment. She looked tired.

"How long do I have, Little Fox?" Ophelia whispered, so low only Primrose could hear.

"Don’t," Primrose’s voice cracked. "Don’t ask that."

"I can feel the battery draining," Ophelia admitted, looking at her hand. "This body... it’s just a memory. It wasn’t meant to walk in the sun again."

"We’ll fix it," Primrose insisted. "Cassian is researching—"

"There is nothing to fix," Ophelia cut her off gently. "I’m not dying, Prim. I’m just... going home. To you."

She patted Primrose’s cheek. Her hand felt solid again, but colder than before.

"But not yet," Ophelia grinned, forcing the energy back into her voice. "I still haven’t been to a spa. I hear they put cucumbers on your eyes. Why? Is it a salad for your face? I must investigate."

She whirled around, clapping her hands.

"Rurik! Move it! The Queen wants a facial!"

They returned to the palace at sunset.

Caspian was waiting in the courtyard. He watched as Rurik unloaded a mountain of boxes, looking exhausted but strangely proud of his new suit.

"Did you buy the entire city?" Caspian asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Only the good parts," Ophelia said, patting her new leather jacket. "We stimulated the economy. You’re welcome."

She walked past him, heading inside. "I’m going to try on my new boots. Rurik, bring the boxes to the East Wing. And don’t drop the hat!"

Caspian looked at Primrose. "She seems... happy."

"She is," Primrose nodded. She clutched the receipt in her hand. It was a staggering sum of gold. "She’s living a thousand years in a week."

"Is she fading?" Caspian asked quietly.

"Yes," Primrose whispered. "Faster than we thought."

Caspian wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Then we make it the best week in history. What’s next on the list?"

Primrose looked at the list Ophelia had scribbled on a napkin.

Get Pants. (Check)

Eat something with cheese. (Check)

Ride a motorcycle (What is a motorcycle? Jax said he has one).

See the Ocean one last time.

"Jax," Primrose sighed. "Prepare the workshop. Grandma wants to go fast."