There was no sunrise in the Threadless Zone.
Just the constant hum of machines, mechanical spindles twitching through the half-dark, and a drifting haze of synthetic fiber particles. Here, cast-off apprentices, outlawed designers, and broken Houses survived in silence — the forgotten edge of the Empire's once-seamless weave.
Sloane had only heard whispers about this place. Now, they were hiding in it.
Ari led them through a tunnel of broken mannequins, past walls scrawled with forbidden stitch patterns.
"This used to be a House," she murmured, brushing her fingers over a cracked crest on the wall: a needle piercing a phoenix's heart.
Sloane stopped.
"Era?"
Ari nodded. "Before they erased it. Before they erased you."
---
Cassien stood at the back, arms folded, but not speaking. His face unreadable.
Sloane had felt the shift in him since the Eidolon heist. Since she'd worn that dress and made herself known. As if something sacred had cracked between them. Or maybe something inevitable had begun.
She approached him, quiet.
"You're angry."
"I'm scared."
She tilted her head. "Of me?"
"Of what they'll do to you."
He looked away, jaw tight. "You declared war."
Sloane crossed her arms. "Then they should've never buried my bloodline. Or banned my right to create."
Cassien's voice was rough. "You think they'll stop at fashion tribunals? You think the Seamrippers won't come?"
Sloane leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of regret in his eyes.
"I'm not hiding anymore, Cassien."
His voice dropped. "Then I'm not leaving your side."
---
The Seamrippers arrived in the capital that same night.
No announcement. No warning. Just a sleek, soundless aircraft landing on the floating runway of the Imperial Stitch Vault — followed by a procession of faceless agents in suits spun from absolute black. Fabric so light it didn't reflect. So dark it bent vision.
Each agent wore a single glowing thread wound around their wrist.
Execution privileges.
The Chancellor watched them with a blank expression.
"She's reviving House Era," she said.
One of her ministers flinched. "The bloodline was dissolved—"
"But not dead," the Chancellor interrupted. "And worse — she's popular."
That word sent ripples through the room.
The Empire could silence a rebel.
But a fashion icon?
That was much harder.
---
Meanwhile, back in the Threadless Zone, Sloane stood before the remnants of the House Era vault — hidden beneath a broken pattern mill.
Inside: bolts of sentient fabric, unfinished prototypes of memoryweave, and the last surviving copy of the Bloodstitch Codex — a forbidden volume that detailed how to imbue garments with legacy-based abilities.
Ari held it in trembling hands. "This isn't just magic. This is DNA."
Sloane opened a folded sketch tucked inside.
It showed a design her mother had drawn — a coat of protection, lined with ancestor thread, designed to shield its wearer from both physical harm and emotional sabotage.
She touched the paper gently.
"Let's rebuild."
---
By morning, the atelier buzzed.
Dax mapped the security grid of the Imperial Showcase — the only venue grand enough to debut a House.
Ari synchronized loom spirits to Sloane's frequency, stabilizing her Threadcraft so she wouldn't burn out again like she nearly had with the Eidolon.
Cassien worked in silence, drawing blueprints of weapons disguised as accessories — ribbon whips, armor-corsets, stilettos with concealed needles.
And Sloane?
She stitched.
For hours.
For days.
Until her fingers bled through ghost-cloth.
Each piece she made wove together pain, ambition, and love — her House's resurrection sewn into every seam.
---
A week later, they surfaced.
They didn't sneak.
They walked into the capital at noon.
Sloane wore a longcoat lined with grief, her boots pulsing softly with loyalty resonance. Cassien walked beside her in tailored armorlace. Ari trailed behind with the Bloodstitch Codex strapped to her chest.
Crowds turned.
Phones flashed.
By the time they reached the Imperial Plaza, the livestream had already hit 3.2 million viewers.
That's when the Seamrippers appeared.
And for the first time in Empire history — a fashion duel was invoked on sacred ground.
---
The Seamripper stepped forward. Their suit flickered with programmed aggression. "State your purpose."
Sloane lifted her chin.
"I am Sloane Era, heir of the House you tried to erase. I claim the right of revival. I challenge the Empire to the Loom."
Gasps.
Even the Seamripper paused.
"You have no Housemaster. No sponsor."
She turned — and Cassien stepped forward, pulling free a seal of silver thread.
"Sponsor confirmed."
"By whom?"
Cassien's eyes gleamed. "By the firstborn of House Vierre."
Shock rippled outward like a fashionquake.
The Empire's golden House. The untouchables. The very bloodline Sloane was accused of rebelling against — now backing her return.
---
The Seamripper hissed. "You'll regret this."
Sloane smiled.
"I've regretted staying silent for too long."
---
As the crowd swelled and feeds surged with hashtags — #HouseEraReturns, #ThreadRebellion, #SloaneVsEmpire — one thing was clear:
This wasn't just a return.
It was a reckoning.
And Sloane Era wasn't just dressing for war.
She was designing it.