The alley still smelled of soot and sweat.
Leia crouched in the corner of the shed, knees drawn to her chest, eyes focused on the corner where the sunlight faded into dust motes. Her cloak — The Cloak of Hold — hung like a quiet sentinel near the window.
The whispers had gotten louder.
Some whispered in fear.
Some in curiosity.
Some in envy.
Selene returned from the street with half a loaf of crusted bread and a pouch of bruised berries. Her steps were quiet — always had been. But Leia heard the change in her rhythm. Heavier. Worried.
"They're talking about you," Selene said simply, breaking the bread in half.
Leia didn't move. "Let them."
"They say you're dangerous. That you used forbidden stitch-runes."
"I used thread."
Selene offered a piece of the bread. "Thread that stopped a fire blast."
Leia took it. Chewed slowly. "Would they prefer I had burned?"
Selene didn't reply.
They both knew the answer.
---
That evening, three boys walked past the alley. Leia recognized one — a messenger's apprentice, the same boy who called her a "ghost tailor" a week ago.
This time he slowed, stared.
And gave her a slight nod.
It wasn't much.
But it was new.
Respect, not fear.
Maybe both.
---
Leia worked by lantern-light. Her fingers moved in rhythm — not rushed, not slow — a quiet kind of certainty building with every pass of the needle. The cloth beneath her hands wasn't a cloak or a scarf this time.
It was a sleeve. Lightweight. Reinforced with cross-stitched thread infused with a faint rune.
A boy had asked her that morning — shyly — if she could make something to help him climb. He wasn't from a gang. Just someone who wanted to escape the weight of the ground.
She said she'd try.
As her needle slid through the sleeve again, her mark warmed on her wrist. A tiny throb, like approval.
---
Then came the knock.
Soft. Unsteady. But persistent.
Selene opened it first. Then stepped aside.
A man entered.
Tall. Slender. Clean boots. A coat far too nice for the outer district.
Leia stood. The needle still between her fingers.
The man's eyes were sharp — calculating — but his smile was smooth.
"Forgive the intrusion," he said. "My name is Calven. I represent… an interested party."
Leia said nothing.
Calven glanced around the tiny shed.
"Word travels, you know. Especially when someone makes a cloak that eats fire."
"I'm not for hire," Leia said flatly.
He chuckled. "Not even for a noble fee?"
Selene moved protectively in front of Leia.
Calven raised both hands. "Peace, madam. I mean no harm. I merely wish to invest in her… talent. Materials. Tools. Food. Shelter. We have better places for gifted girls like her."
Leia's hands curled into fists.
"Girls like me?"
"Unpolished. Untrained. Hidden away like moths under rugs."
Leia stepped forward.
"You came all the way here to talk about rugs?"
Calven's smile thinned. "Just think on it. My card."
He placed a dark slip of cloth — embroidered with golden thread — on the table.
Then turned, coat brushing the wall as he stepped back into the dark.
Leia stared at the cloth.
Her mark pulsed.
Not warm this time.
But sharp.
---
Later that night, Selene touched Leia's shoulder gently.
"We could use the help."
Leia nodded. "I know."
"But?"
Leia turned to the cloak hanging nearby.
"I didn't come this far just to be stitched into someone else's banner."
---
The next morning, children ran past the alley screaming and laughing.
One of them skidded to a stop, pointing.
"Thread witch lives here!"
Leia stepped out slowly.
A little girl approached, wide-eyed.
"Is it true you sew armor that sings?"
Leia crouched, smiling.
"No."
The girl pouted.
"But I sew armor that listens."
The girl squealed and ran off.
Leia stood. Selene watched from the doorway, arms folded.
"Armor that listens?" she asked.
Leia shrugged.
"It sounded better than 'armor that absorbs shockwaves through tightly woven rune-thread and emotional resonance.'"
Selene laughed for the first time in days.
---