The next morning, Sloane woke to chaos.
Newsfeeds were ablaze. Every threadcaster, every fashion outlet — even political channels — were screaming variations of the same headline:
"House Era Defies Empire"
"Seamripper Defeated — First Challenge to the High Council in Two Decades"
"Couture as Rebellion?"
"Who Is Sloane Era?"
Sloane stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the Atelier Apex and slowly buttoned a silk corset blouse, trying to ignore the tremor in her fingers. Ari sat nearby, sifting through message requests pouring in from agents, sponsors, and two major houses offering alliances.
"You've become a symbol overnight," Ari said, scrolling through the chaos. "Rebel, muse, icon… Depends on who's talking."
Sloane turned to her. "And the Council?"
Ari's face darkened. "Silent. But that's not good. When they're quiet, they're planning."
---
Across the Empire, high society was shaking.
House Marquess cut ties with House Roan for voicing support for Sloane. House Tanaka announced emergency runway shows to reclaim cultural dominance. A rising number of young designers and influencers were publicly aligning themselves with the "Era Movement," tagging themselves in homemade versions of her Dress of Reclamation.
In the streets of lower Parisia, teens wore bootleg threads stitched with "Thread Not Rule."
And in the shadows, the Council gathered.
---
The Imperial Council of Fashion met inside the Spire of Silence — a brutalist cathedral of glass and woven steel that pierced the clouds like a needle. Only seven chairs were ever filled. Today, all seven were present.
At the center: Chancellor Lira Versai.
"She must be broken publicly," murmured the Minister of Discipline. "Or this movement will fracture the power balance."
Lira sipped her dark-stained tea. "No. Breaking her would make her a martyr. We need her tamed. Brought into the fold. Controlled."
"And if she won't be controlled?"
Lira smiled faintly.
"Then we design a downfall so exquisite she thanks us for it."
---
Back at Apex, Sloane was suiting up for a private meeting — a rival House had sent an envoy. They wanted to propose a partnership.
Not just political.
Matrimonial.
"You're joking," Sloane said flatly.
Ari held up the offer. "Not joking. House Andros. They've got power on three continents, the largest tech-thread export chain, and apparently, a son who's very single."
Sloane raised a brow. "Cassien will love that."
"You haven't heard from him?"
"No."
He had disappeared the night after the duel.
---
But before she could dwell on it, her visitors arrived.
Three figures. One draped in copper jacquard, the second in scaled polymer mesh, the third — him.
Dorian Andros.
He stepped forward and bowed with perfect old-money elegance. Tall, sharp-jawed, eyes like burnished silver.
"Lady Sloane," he said, voice smooth and low. "It's an honor."
She blinked. He was… beautiful. Too beautiful. Like a mannequin made to seduce cameras.
"You came yourself," she said.
He smiled. "Your story deserves more than a letter. You're the most powerful name in fashion right now. And in our world, power must be… married."
Ari snorted behind her.
Sloane narrowed her eyes. "You want to marry me?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"I want to make you Empress."
---
Cassien watched the broadcast from a darkened club outside the Capital's edge. The room buzzed with dancers and underground designers.
He didn't blink as the screen showed Dorian Andros leaning in close to Sloane, whispering at her shoulder.
"They're grooming her," said a voice beside him. Reina — a rogue stitch witch, his ex-covert contact inside House Andros.
"I know," he said.
"Then why aren't you there?"
"Because if I walk in now, I'll be doing exactly what they want. The brooding, possessive love interest. It weakens her."
"She'll think you left."
Cassien finished his drink.
"She knows I'm watching."
---
That night, Sloane lay awake.
The Andros proposal was tempting — politically. And Dorian had charm, control, and a fashion-tech empire behind him.
But when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the moment Cassien had taken her hand on the Loom. Not as an ally. But as something more.
---
Suddenly, the window of her atelier exploded.
She ducked instinctively as threadglass rained down.
Three figures in blackout cloaks crashed into the room. Stitchblades drawn. Their garments shimmered with Council code.
Assassins.
---
Sloane rolled, yanking the spindle-hilt from her nightstand. Her dress formed instantly — The Thornweave. It covered her in armor-like petals of spiked silk. Defensive. Deadly.
She lashed out with a stitchblade.
One attacker fell.
But the others surged forward — faster, too fast. She barely blocked the second, then—
A shadow blurred through the window.
Cassien.
He crashed into the third assassin, blade to throat, eyes blazing.
"You didn't think I'd let you face this alone, did you?"
She didn't answer.
She just exhaled.
And smiled.