After a long, hot bath, the servants guided me to a luxurious dressing room. A dry, middle-aged woman arrived a few minutes later, introducing herself as a tailor.
"Oh, you poor thing," she fussed, twirling around my slender body and taking measurements. She spent the most time examining my Sunpurged shoulder, taking the surface area of the wound and the distance it extended down my bicep. Hot tingles crept through my body as her fingers traced around the glowing lines, but I held still until she finished. The tailor then asked for my preferences, which I readily supplied, inspired by the off-shoulder dresses I'd worn at the Divine Throne.
The tailor jotted down a few notes and left, promising to return in a few hours before the banquet. Meanwhile, the remaining servants, who were all Beastkin slaves, found a loose, sleeveless dress for me to wear in the meantime, and I was ushered to a guestroom.
