The two of them spent the next while wandering through more than half the streets of the city.
The snacks in the royal capital offered far more variety than those in Klein's small town. On one street corner, an old man was selling honey-roasted sweet potatoes from a wooden-wheeled cart. The potatoes on the stove were roasted until they were fragrant and charred; when the skin was peeled back, the orange-red flesh inside steamed with heat.
Ophelia bought one, broke it in half to hand to Klein, and walked ahead while biting into her own half. She hadn't been paying much attention when she broke it; Klein's half was noticeably larger. He looked at it, said nothing, and followed her, taking a bite. It was sweet—so sweet it was almost heady, as if the variety had been magically improved.
“This is pretty good,” he said.
Ophelia glanced back at him. She didn't reply, but she slowed her pace slightly to walk side-by-side with him.
Further ahead was a shop selling sour jelly made from berries called green-plum berries. It was set in small clay bowls, a translucent emerald green with a fine pattern of bubbles on the surface. Klein took a bite, and the sourness made his eyebrows knit together, his entire face scrunching up.
Seeing his expression, the corner of Ophelia's mouth twitched—she didn't quite laugh, but there was a smile in her eyes.
She reached out, took his bowl as well, and finished it off without a change in expression.
“Not sour?”
“It's fine.”
Klein looked at her. The last traces of green jelly at the bottom of the bowl had been scraped clean without a hint of hesitation. The Knightess's taste tolerance seemed to be on a completely different level than that of an ordinary person. Or perhaps she was just exceptionally good at enduring it.
Before he could say anything, Ophelia had already stacked the two empty bowls on the shop counter and turned to keep walking. The sunlight hit her from the side, casting a pale glow around her golden hair, with stray strands curling slightly near her ears.
As Klein followed, his gaze lingered on her back for a moment.
Ophelia really did suit dresses.
Though she probably didn't feel it herself—to her, wearing a suit of armor or a dress was likely fundamentally the same: just "something to put on."
But from Klein's perspective as an observer, the difference was vast. At the very least, the way the hem of a dress swayed with her steps was nothing like a tasset.
No... that wasn't quite right. Klein recalled how often Ophelia had been changing her clothes lately.
This Knightess might actually be unexpectedly fond of looking beautiful.
While they were strolling, Klein suddenly stopped in his tracks.
He looked back the way they had come, then down at the paper bag in his satchel.
“What is it?” Ophelia asked.
“I just remembered.”
“What?”
“I said I was going to buy you an outfit when we left.”
The two of them looked at each other.
After walking through several streets, they hadn't looked at a single proper piece of clothing, but they had come back with three pairs of stockings.
Ophelia was the first to look away, her lips pressing into a thin line as she remained silent.
Klein coughed awkwardly. “...We'll do it next time.”
“Mm.”
The subject was dropped with crisp efficiency.
Neither of them suggested turning back to shop again. With a silent understanding, they turned a corner and headed back toward the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce.
It was still late morning when they returned. The sun hung just slightly east of its zenith, and it was still quite a while before mealtime.
The staff in the front hall naturally recognized them, nodding in greeting and letting them pass to go upstairs.
One side of the window in the second-floor guest room was open, letting a draft through that lifted a corner of the tablecloth.
A freshly changed teapot and two clean cups sat on the table, the pot still warm. Nelisa's arrangements were thorough.
Klein placed his satchel on the table, unbuckled it, and took out the paper bag. The fine paper was wrapped in several layers; once opened, the three pairs of stockings were neatly folded together.
He unfolded all three and laid them out on the tabletop.
The spider silk fabric presented a restrained luster under the light—not flashy, but possessing a texture that was clearly not an ordinary textile.
The black pair was the most understated, the skin-toned pair had a faint, subtle pattern, and the smoke gray pair was the most exquisite—with the slightest change in angle, the hue would shift, dancing between gray and pale silver like moonlight reflecting on the surface of water.
I should do a material analysis on these when I get the chance, a thought flashed through Klein's mind, but it was immediately replaced by another image. He looked away.
Ophelia walked over and picked up the black pair.
She sat down at the edge of the table and bent over to unbuckle her boots. Her movements were efficient, as fast as her technique for unfastening armor buckles on the battlefield. She placed her boots neatly by the legs of the chair.
She shook out the stockings and gave the opening a little stretch.
Then she stopped.
Klein was sitting in the opposite chair, ostensibly flipping through a guidebook of the royal capital provided by the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce—though he wasn't actually reading; he hadn't processed a single word, his peripheral vision fixed on her.
“These things...” Ophelia held the stockings up to inspect them. The thin fabric was nearly transparent between her fingers, and she frowned. “Which end do they go on?”
Klein's hand stopped flipping the manual.
“You've never worn stockings before?”
“I have,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “The thick wool socks you wear under a suit of armor. I'd even wear two layers in the winter.”
Those were entirely different from stockings. They were separated by about eight or nine different categories of clothing.
Ophelia tried to slide her foot in, likely using the same method she used for regular socks—just shoving her foot straight in. The spider silk fabric was thin and slippery; as soon as her toes went in, they skewed to the side, and the toe of the stocking twisted into a bunch.
She pulled her foot out and tried again. This time her toes were aligned, but the heel was out of place. The entire stocking ended up bunched and wrinkled around her ankle like a wad of crumpled tissue paper.
She stared down at it for two seconds. Her expression didn't change, but her movements clearly faltered.
In that subtle pause was a sense of... Klein thought about it; describing it as "thwarted" might be an exaggeration, but it was certainly a silent questioning of: How does this thing dare to disobey me?
He almost laughed out loud.
“Stop pulling,” he spoke up. “No matter how strong spider silk is, it won't survive that kind of treatment.”
Ophelia looked up at him.
She didn't say anything, but the look in her eyes was clear: Then you do it.
From this distance, her golden eyes had a ring of extremely pale amber around the pupils.
He set the manual down, stood up, and walked over to her. He didn't take a chair but instead crouched down directly in front of her.
“Give me your foot.”
Ophelia hesitated for about two seconds.
Finally, she extended the foot that was halfway into the stocking, the fabric still a wrinkled mess around her ankle.
Klein first slid the stocking off and smoothed it out again.
“You have to roll the stockings up first,” he said, demonstrating as he spoke. His hands rolled the fabric from the opening all the way down to the toe, turning it into a ring like a donut. “Fit them over the toes, align them with the heel, and then slowly push upward. You can't yank them; yanking makes them snag easily.”
Ophelia looked down at his movements, remaining silent.
His left hand supported her ankle while his right hand fitted the rolled ring over her toes, slowly unfurling it.
The spider silk fabric clung snugly to her skin, starting from her toes and gradually wrapping over her instep and heel before moving up her ankle.
Her foot was very cool.
Not the coldness of illness.
The Knightess had a fast metabolism; it was normal for the temperature at her extremities to be low—Klein had read similar accounts in medical books, noting that the bodies of those who engaged in long-term, high-intensity combat would adjust in this direction.
His palms were warm, and the temperature difference between them was distinct through the thin gauze.
She was the cool side, and he was the warm side. Separated by a layer of spider silk.
He pushed the stocking past her ankle and over her calf.
The black fine spider gauze clung to her calf, perfectly tracing the lines of her leg.
The curve of her muscles wasn't bulky, but it was firm, and the transition between the widest part of her calf and her ankle was clean. A sense of power was hidden beneath those lines; usually, it wasn't obvious, but being wrapped in thin gauze actually made it more apparent.
As Klein's fingers passed over the outer side of her calf, his fingertips brushed against a small patch of skin through the fabric.
That sensation caused his movements to pause for a fraction of a second.
It was brief, less than half a second, and he barely noticed it himself. But it felt as if his fingers had been scorched by something, causing a tiny, momentary hesitation.
He didn't look up, continuing to push the fabric higher.
After passing her knee, his movements slowed slightly—not out of dawdling, but because the knee required the leg to be slightly bent for a proper fit, otherwise it would wrinkle.
At this range, he was even closer, and he could smell a very faint scent from her. It wasn't perfume; the Knightess didn't use such things.
But there was indeed a fresh fragrance, mixed with the clean, fibrous scent of the spider silk itself—perhaps it was just his hormones playing tricks on him.
“Straighten your leg a bit.”
Ophelia complied.
She was cooperative, but the rhythm of her breathing changed slightly. It wasn't obvious; if he hadn't been crouching this close, he wouldn't have heard it.
The stocking continued up the curve of her thigh, the spider silk fabric fitting perfectly without a single redundant wrinkle. The black gauze deepened the tone of her skin; her naturally pale skin, viewed through the black gauze, took on a quality that was hard to describe—
Klein searched his mind for an adjective and found that none quite fit.
He pulled the cuff to the middle of her thigh and let go.
“There,” he said.
His voice was a bit raspier than he had expected.
He looked up.
Ophelia was looking down at her own legs.
One was clad in black silk, the other was still bare. The contrast was striking. The leg in the stocking had its lines wrapped in a subtle texture—it wasn't a covering, as the spider silk was too thin to hide anything; rather, it was like a very faint filter applied over the skin. Even though everything was visible, that single barrier made it more—
From his crouching perspective, the entire line from her toes to her upper thigh was connected by the black gauze, appearing excessively smooth.
He felt that staying at this angle for another second would be inappropriate.
But he didn't stand up yet.
“The other one,” he said, reaching out.
When Ophelia handed him her other foot, her toes curled slightly.
It was a very light movement, her five toes clenching and then relaxing, like an unconscious, instinctive reaction.
She didn't hesitate this time.
Klein didn't look up, following the same steps to put on the second one. He was more practiced than the first time, which also made him faster—almost as if he were intentionally shortening the duration of the process.
Once both were on, he finally stood up and took a step back.
His knees were indeed a bit sore. But that wasn't the point.
Ophelia sat on the chair, her legs pressed together, visible beneath the hem of her dress.
The black fine spider gauze extended from the edge of her skirt all the way to her toes, thin and even, with a restrained luster.
Her legs were already long, and wearing these made them look even longer.
With her legs together, the gap between her calves was a sharp line, and the curve of her knees was rounded and clean.
“How do they feel?” Klein asked. He was asking if they were comfortable to wear.
At least, that was what he told himself he was asking.
Ophelia stood up and took a few steps. Her movements were a bit lighter than usual—likely because she was barefoot on the floor without her boots.
“The elasticity is great.” She moved her ankle and did a small lunge in place; the stocking fitted perfectly back against her skin as her muscles tensed and relaxed, without any slipping. “They fit much better than wool socks.”
“Of course. The elasticity of spider silk is on a completely different level than wool fibers—”
Ophelia walked to the window, looking down at the effect of the stockings on her calves by the natural light.
The sunlight passed through the spider silk fabric, casting a microscopic mesh pattern onto her skin, nearly invisible to the naked eye but discernible as a weave if one looked closely.
That mesh pattern shifted slightly as the muscles in her calves moved, looking almost alive.
She stared down at them for a long while.
She didn't look like she was studying the textile craftsmanship; it was more like she was scrutinizing something foreign—the fact of "her own legs in stockings" was likely a brand-new experience for her.
From wool socks to silk stockings, the difference wasn't just in the material, but in an entire realm she had never stepped into.
She turned to look at Klein.
“You're certainly quite practiced at this.”
The words sounded ordinary.
But Klein's intuition told him they weren't. There was a calm curiosity in those golden eyes, and beneath that curiosity lay another layer that wasn't easily identified.
“Just intuition,” he answered plainly.
It was the truth. At least mostly.
Ophelia gave a small “Mm” and didn't press further. When she withdrew her gaze, her eyelashes lowered and then rose again, unhurriedly.
She sat back down in the chair and crossed her legs.
The black stockings stretched into a smooth curve in the movement, the luster of the spider silk shimmering as the angle changed.
The toe of her upper leg bobbed twice in the air, as if she were feeling the sensation of her toes being wrapped in the silk.
A draft blew in from the window, stirring the hem of her dress.
Using the cover of that breeze, Ophelia suddenly leaned in close.
Her movement wasn't fast, but it was decisive—possessing the same rhythm as when she drew her sword.
The distance between them suddenly closed to a dangerous range. Klein could see the roots of her eyelashes and even smell the faint, lingering sourness of the green-plum berries on her breath.
Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.
“Want to touch?”
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