The morning after the fire incident settled on the city like smoke that refused to rise. Word traveled fast in the outer district — faster than coin, faster than law.
Leia stepped into the small market square with her hood up and her mother's hand held gently in hers.
The fabric stall owner looked up and froze. His eyes flicked to her wrist — not the mark, hidden beneath cloth — but the way she walked.
Firm. Grounded.
"You're the one," he muttered before he realized he'd said it aloud.
Leia paused. "What?"
He blinked. "Nothing—sorry, I just… my niece said you stitched fireproof fabric."
Selene raised a brow. "It's just cloth."
But the man shook his head. "No, ma'am. She said she saw it. Flames hit your girl and she walked through it. Didn't scream. Didn't cry."
More heads turned. Whispers buzzed like flies.
Leia felt her shoulders stiffen.
A boy from a fruit stall leaned over to his friend and whispered, "That's the thread witch, right?"
Leia turned sharply. The boys fell silent, pretending to be fascinated with rotting apples.
"Let's get what we came for," Leia said under her breath, guiding Selene forward.
---
Later, back in the shed, Leia sat cross-legged beside the open crate of materials they had salvaged over weeks.
Her fingers trembled slightly, not from fear — but from the weight of attention.
She wasn't used to being noticed.
Not like this.
She stared at her thread — pale lavender coils wrapped around a rough wooden peg. She'd dyed it herself using crushed berry skins.
Selene placed a small bowl beside her. Porridge. Thin, but warm.
"You were brave yesterday," her mother said, voice low.
Leia didn't answer immediately. She tugged a length of thread between her fingers.
"I wasn't brave," she finally said. "I was angry."
"Then maybe that's what bravery feels like."
Leia looked up.
Selene smiled faintly. "What they call you doesn't matter. Witch. Seamstress. Girl. Let the thread speak for itself."
---
By evening, someone knocked on the shed door.
Three knocks. Slow. Measured.
Leia froze. She reached for her cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders.
Selene moved to the side.
The door creaked open.
It was a girl — no older than Leia, maybe even younger. She wore mismatched boots, patched sleeves, and carried a bundle of ripped cloth.
Her hands trembled.
"I—I heard… you fix things," she said.
Leia tilted her head. "What kind of things?"
The girl stepped forward, unwrapping the bundle.
A scarf. Torn down the middle. Blackened at the edges.
"My brother," the girl explained. "He's… sick. He dropped this into a stove by accident. It was our mum's. She's gone now. I just wanted it whole again."
Leia said nothing. Her eyes softened.
She took the cloth gently, ran her fingers over the seam.
The mark on her wrist pulsed once.
She nodded.
"Come back tomorrow."
---
That night, Leia sat by candlelight, working slowly.
Not with magic. Not with runes.
Just care.
Stitch by stitch.
The scarf wasn't powerful. It wouldn't shield against fire. But it mattered to someone.
As her needle moved, she felt something strange — the symbol on her wrist glowed, just faintly.
It wasn't responding to danger.
It was responding to meaning.
---
The next morning, the girl returned. Leia handed the scarf over — mended, re-dyed at the edges, soft as moonlight.
The girl burst into tears.
"They said you were scary," she sobbed. "But you're not."
Leia only smiled. "I'm what I need to be."
---
Later that day, more came.
An old man needing gloves repaired.
A boy asking if she could add weight to his shirt's hem to help him balance his earth-step ability.
A woman with a tear in a combat vest, asking if Leia could "make it stronger than it was before."
Leia didn't say yes to everyone.
But she listened.
And by nightfall, she knew something had changed.
---
Selene sat watching as Leia cleaned her needles.
"You didn't fight today," she said softly.
Leia looked up. "No."
"But you still won something."
Leia glanced at the stack of folded items beside her. "They're afraid of me."
"They respect you," Selene corrected. "Sometimes they're the same thing."
---
Out in the alley, children whispered again.
"She stitched a scarf that sings when you wear it."
"No, no — she fixed a dying man's coat and he walked again."
"Her thread glows under the moon."
"She doesn't cry. She doesn't burn. She's the thread witch."
And someone, in the shadows, wrote her name down for the first time:
> Leia Crows — Seamstress. Thread Rank: E (potential unclear). Observation requested.
---