Some gowns are made to dazzle.
Others are made to destroy.
---
The Unity Gala
Every decade, the Empire hosted the Unity Gala — a night of forced peace, ostentatious luxury, and veiled threats, held in the Threadspire Palace.
All twelve fashion Houses would gather.
Designers. Nobles. Killers wearing sequins.
Sloane's plan was simple in theory.
Infiltrate. Identify the Empress's assassin. Escape alive.
But nothing in the Empire was ever simple.
---
The Phantom Designer
Sloane couldn't attend as herself.
She would become someone else.
Someone the Empire would never suspect.
"Elira Vanta," she said, pulling on the veil of shadow thread.
An alias whispered in underground circles. A ghost couturier whose models vanished after shows — and reappeared years later as CEOs or corpses.
Her dress: a living weave laced with microblade petals, able to defend or kill.
Cassien secured her passage with a forged House Eiran seal.
"Try not to assassinate anyone before dinner," he teased, straightening her collar.
"Only if they behave."
She hesitated, then looked up at him.
"Be careful. If they recognize you..."
"They won't. I've changed."
"For me?"
"For me first. But always for you."
---
The Gala Begins
Threadspire Palace shimmered like a hallucination.
Ceilings woven with bioluminescent silk vines. Servers wearing dresses that adjusted shape based on guests' moods.
The elite had arrived.
House Marcon in blood-red velvet carved to mimic arteries.
House Delvaux in sheer optic-camouflage gowns, nearly invisible.
And at the center, on a throne of mirrored glass, sat Empress Virelle.
Her dress was a neural fabric that could scan every face in the room.
Sloane stepped carefully.
Every word spoken, every blink, could mean death.
---
A Familiar Face
Then, she saw Rowan Alix.
Former friend.
Now chief designer of House Cindrel — the house that betrayed her family.
He walked toward her, drink in hand, his jacket a living flame stitched into a tailored blaze.
"Elira Vanta," he said smoothly. "I thought you were a myth."
Sloane didn't blink. "Myths sell well these days."
He smiled. "You're not here for fashion."
"Neither are you."
Their eyes locked.
Sparks.
History.
Hate, barely hidden behind flirtation.
"I'll see you during the wardrobe showcase," he said. "I'm debuting a piece called The Widowmaker."
Sloane smiled coldly.
"So am I."
---
The Assassination Plot
Backstage, Sloane snuck into the secure archive where the Empress's gown was stored.
There, hidden in the hem of a ceremonial sash, was a micro-bomb laced with needle-thread explosives.
Whoever installed it knew couture well.
Too well.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps.
She dove behind a mirror rack.
Ari.
In disguise.
Sloane almost stepped out — until she saw Ari whispering into a comm-thread laced into her neckline.
"Target is on site. Phase Two begins at the fireworks."
Sloane's heart cracked.
Ari was the traitor.
---
The Living Dress Activates
She returned to the gala floor, fury fueling every step.
As fireworks boomed above the Threadspire dome, Sloane moved toward the Empress.
Just as the ceremonial presentation began, she activated her dress.
The petals unfurled, forming blade-fans.
The microdrones inside scattered, disrupting the neural scanner in the Empress's veil.
Then she knelt, pulling the bombed sash free.
Guards shouted.
Guns rose.
But the dress was already reacting — wrapping around her like a shield, deflecting bullets with petal-shards.
Cassien leapt from the upper balcony and landed beside her, his coat now revealed as battle-woven.
They fought their way out together — blade and thread, style and fury.
---
Aftermath
The Empress lived.
But the gala was in shambles.
Sloane's name was whispered like thunder.
Not just rebel.
Not just designer.
Now a legend.
A living myth who walked into the most secure palace in the Empire — and left with secrets, blood, and a message:
The Resistance had taste.
And power.
And she wasn't done.