TEN MINUTES OUT. I’m coming in hot with my costume.
I text back a quick “see you soon” and make my way to the entrance, positioning myself where she’ll see me the moment she arrives.
Ten minutes later, I spot her. Or rather, I spot the massive garment bag she’s wrestling through the doorway, followed by a smaller duffel and what looks like a prop sword in a protective case.
“Sunny!” I wave, then hurry over to help with the garment bag. “You made it.”
“You have no idea what I went through to get here,” she says, but she’s grinning, her eyes bright with the particular excitement that comes with bringing a creation to life. “Khanner kept insisting on me resting, and I ended up taking the long way around the hotel to get here, and then...” She stops, taking in my expression. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
“You look happy,” I say simply. It’s true. Despite the stress of the morning, the circles under her eyes from too little sleep, there’s a lightness to her that makes my chest tight with something that isn’t quite envy but lives in the same neighborhood.
“I am.” She hands me the duffel bag. “Now come on. We’ve got exactly forty-five minutes to get me into this thing and make it to judging.”
We find a relatively quiet corner in the changing area. Not easy, given that half the convention seems to be using the space to apply last-minute touches to already elaborate costumes. Sunny unzips the garment bag with the reverence of someonehandling a religious artifact, and even knowing what’s inside, I catch my breath.
The costume is breathtaking. A warrior priestess’s battle dress rendered in shades of white and silver, with intricate embroidery that catches the light when the fabric moves. The bodice is structured like armor but made of some lighter material that will allow for movement, and the skirt falls in layers that suggest both practical battle wear and ceremonial significance. A matching cloak is folded at the bottom of the bag, along with a pair of boots that have been modified to look like they’re made of the same material as the armor.
“Sunny,” I say, because it’s all I can manage. “It’s...”
“I know.” She runs a hand over the embroidery, her touch gentle. “Three months of work. Every stitch by hand.”
I help her into it. The costume requires two people to put on properly, with laces at the back and buckles at the shoulders that need to be fastened in a specific order.
As we work, Sunny talks me through the details: the symbolism in the embroidery, the research into historical battle dress that informed the design, the three different versions of the cloak before she settled on this one.
Her hands move with the same confidence I bring to a perfect julienne or a precisely folded dumpling. The particular skill of someone who’s put in the hours, who knows their craft inside and out.
The final piece is the headdress, a delicate construction of wire and fabric that sits across her forehead like a crown, with trailing pieces that frame her face. With it in place, the transformation is complete. Sunny Adlawan, Executive Assistant and high achiever, is gone. In her place is the Warrior Priestess in Wyvern’s Dawn, ready for her final battle.
“You look...” I search for the right word. “Perfect.”
“Thank you. Really, for everything.” A moment passes between us. Years of built-up loyalty in one smile. She wields her sword. “Think this will go over well to carry into my office?”
I pretend to think it over. “Oh, the perfect accessory with a pencil skirt and red-bottom heels.”
We giggle, siphoning off the nervous energy that’s been built up waiting for this moment. Then Sunny straightens her shoulders and picks up her prop sword. “It would have been ideal if I thought to hire a dragon knight,” she says, all business again. “But this will have to do.”
“And don’t forget the video we put together. So you don’t have to say anything. Just be there. Speaking of which, let’s hustle over to make sure the AV guys have it set up. I was getting it all prepped so you didn’t have to worry. BRB.”
We make our way through the convention, drawing appreciative looks and the occasional request for photos. Sunny handles it with the easy confidence of someone who’s comfortable in the spotlight, stopping to chat with admirers while somehow keeping us moving toward our destination.
She’s gonna be a shoo-in for a trophy.
We’re almost at the judges’ table when I spot him. Or rather, spot the space he’s clearing as he makes his way through the crowd. The Dragon Knight.
Impressive doesn’t begin to cover it. At seven feet tall, with the distinctive iridescent scales that mark him as dragonkin, he’d be noticeable anywhere. In full Dragon Knight regalia (armor that gleams with the particular luster of actual metal, not the plastic or resin most competitors use), he’s a showstopper.
Whoever this dude is, he is one serious cosplayer. His costume legit doesn’t look like a costume but straight out of medieval times.
The Dragon Knight sees us. Or rather, clocks Sunny the Warrior Priestess. And something changes in his expression.Not the careful neutrality of a stranger assessing a crowd. But a very specific type of warmth aimed at my best friend.
“Ah, Sunny. Did you happen to order a Dragon Knight without realizing it in one of your hyperplanning, strategiary deep focus modes?”
Sunny turns and follows my gaze. “What are you—oh!” Then she grows pale. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Khanner.”
