The Atelier burned with the scent of scorched silk.
Cassien's blade shimmered, humming softly in the tense silence as the last of the assassins slumped to the marble floor. A pool of threadglass shimmered near Sloane's boots — each glint a reminder of the attempt on her life. Her chest rose and fell beneath the armor of the Thornweave, each breath tinged with fury and adrenaline.
"They sent Council-weavers," Cassien said, kneeling to check the assassin's wrist. Sure enough — the inside arm bore the black-stitched insignia: the sigil of House Versai. "They've broken every code by doing this. No trial. No accusation. Just… erasure."
"They meant to make it look like a robbery," Sloane murmured, stepping over a broken length of shimmerlace. "But this was personal. They want me silent."
Cassien looked up at her, dark eyes intense. "We can't stay here. They'll come again — with more."
"I won't run," she said. "Not now. They turned me into a symbol, remember? Let's make them regret it."
He smiled slightly. "That's more like it."
---
They fled the Atelier within the hour. Ari had already rerouted all designs to a secure cloud vault and booked a subterranean rail car to the outer wards of Parisia. Beneath layers of streetwear and digital-cloaked hoods, they vanished into the shifting crowds of the lower city.
The lower city — what the Houses called The Untailored — was a mess of flashing neon, counterfeit garments, fashion cults, and decentralized couture syndicates. It pulsed with raw invention and dangerous ambition. Here, a new design could make you a legend — or get you killed.
It was also where Sloane had grown up.
"Home sweet chaos," she muttered.
---
They holed up in a safehouse built into an abandoned tailoring district beneath the neon bones of the old Monarque Mall. Every wall was covered in aged mannequins, half-finished gowns, dismembered sewing bots. Sloane moved through the space like she was re-learning an old language.
Cassien leaned against a cracked display case, watching her.
"Why didn't you tell me about Andros?" he asked finally.
Sloane didn't look up. "Because I didn't know what to do with it. You disappear. I'm being hunted. Then this... perfect prince appears offering the world tied with a bow."
"You know it's a trap."
"Of course it's a trap. But it's the kind of trap that can protect the people I care about. He's offering armor, Cassien. Legitimacy."
He crossed the floor. "I can protect you."
She met his eyes. "You already did. But this isn't about just survival anymore. It's about winning."
A beat passed. Then she added, quieter, "And part of me wonders if accepting his proposal might make the Council hesitate."
Cassien's jaw tensed.
"You'd really marry him?"
"I don't love him," she said. "But power... marries power. Isn't that the rule?"
He moved even closer.
"And what if I break that rule?"
Their faces were inches apart. Tension rose like static heat. Then:
BANG.
The side door burst open.
Ari stumbled inside, breathless. "You need to see this."
---
A hologlass screen flickered on.
The headline read:
"BREAKING: House Era Under Investigation — Imperial Council Files Formal Charges"
Underneath:
A leaked footage shows Sloane and Cassien in combat — alleged 'unauthorized use of threadtech' and 'collusion with anti-Empire rebels.'
They'd been framed.
Ari growled. "This is war."
Sloane stared at the screen. Her entire body buzzed with rage.
"They want to control me. Or destroy me."
Cassien reached for her hand.
"Then we burn their rules to the ground."
---
By morning, the plan was set.
If the Council wanted war, she'd give them one — not with armies, but with a collection. One that would shatter everything they stood for.
A fashion show. Illegal. Underground. Designed with banned threadtypes and infused with hybrid power couture — styles the Council forbade. Garments laced with memory-silk, emotional resonance chains, ancestral coding. Dangerous. Unstable. Forbidden.
Each design would tell a story.
Her story.
And the show would broadcast across the Empire.
---
They called it: The Velvet Coup.
---
As underground designers flocked to her side, Sloane stood on a broken platform beneath a dying chandelier and addressed them all.
"They said only legacy bloodlines get to define beauty. They said power comes from titles, not vision. They built walls around expression — and called it order."
She looked across the sea of rebels.
"Well, I'm done asking permission. We don't need their stages. We build our own. And when we walk it... we don't just strut."
"We rise."