Isadora awoke with a gasp.
Birds chirped. Sunlight filtered through tattered curtains. Dust motes danced in the air like faded sparkles from a forgotten ball.
She sat up, slowly. Her head throbbed. Her back ached. Her hair, oh gods, her hair, was flat.
She blinked.
The bed was scratchy straw.
The sheets were burlap.
The window was... circular.
The walls were made of uneven stone, held together by what appeared to be despair and a single nail.
She inhaled sharply.
"No."
She looked down.
She was wearing a shapeless linen shift. Beige. Unironed. Possibly damp.
"NO."
She scrambled to the broken mirror propped up on the wall. Her reflection blinked back at her: the bone structure was intact (thank the gods), but everything else was village-core nightmare. She was at least six shades more pale, had freckles (freckles?!), and—
"My eyebrows are GONE."
Riku sipped his bubble tea, watching the reincarnation window like it was a drama series.
"She's awake," he said.
Macaron leaned over. "How long until she realizes she's in the Seamstress Spawn Zone?"
"She already has. We're five minutes from a magical tantrum."
Karma-1: "Let me know if she starts throwing scissors again."
Ginger Snap: "You altered her file, didn't you?"
Riku shrugged innocently. "I gave her a meaningful underdog arc."
"You set her up for a fashion-fueled revenge plot."
"Exactly. That's growth."
Isadora paced the shack in silent fury.
Her hands glowed faintly when she brushed against the fabric on the wall. Her fingers tingled when she picked up a needle. The thread floated into the air as if drawn by her will.
"Oh gods," she whispered. "No…"
She waved her hand. The rags near her foot twisted into a neat spiral. The edge of her bedsheet hem self-corrected. A nearby curtain folded into pleats.
Her jaw clenched.
"I've been given... Threadweaving."
Soul Ability Activated: THREADWEAVING
Magic Type: Fabric-based enchantment Grants user control over cloth, color, stitching, reinforcement, glamor threads, dramatic wind effects, and sass.
"I'm sewing magic, aren't I?" she muttered bitterly.
A local child peeked in the door. "Um... Miss Isadora? The dress you made last night for Miss Tansy? She said it made her cry. In a good way."
Isadora blinked. "...I made something?"
The child held up a plain wool dress. It shimmered faintly with gold embroidery along the hem, symbols of protection, blooming flowers, a small enchanted warmth charm woven into the sleeve.
"...I don't remember doing this."
"You were sleep-sewing," the child said proudly. "Mama says that means the Seamstress Goddess chose you!"
Isadora stared at the child.
Then at the dress.
Then at her hands.
They were glowing again. Thread gathered at her fingertips, swirling like silk caught in a breeze. Even the dust motes twinkled.
She exhaled slowly.
"Fine," she said. "If I must suffer, I shall suffer fashionably."
She threw open the door of the shack and pinned a sign to the post.
"House of Thorne – Fashion for the Damned (and Slightly Inconvenienced)"Custom stitching. Magical glamours. Minor hexes extra. No beige allowed.
Within hours, three villagers were lined up with dresses, a tattered cloak, and one "cursed smock of perpetual dampness."
Isadora accepted the garments like a priestess accepting offerings.
"I shall make you beautiful," she whispered.
Riku held up a bingo card. "First denial, second ego break, third acceptance arc. I win."
Macaron sighed. "She's still going to demand a duke's mansion."
"Yeah," Riku smirked. "But now she's gonna build it herself."