Word spread faster than Aveline expected.
Within a week, the slums whispered about the workshop run by a mysterious young woman. The clothes were relatively inexpensive, but what caught people's eyes were two things: they had readily available clothing in different sizes that could be tailored for you, and the fact that any custom order was ready within a week. This alone had the people amazed.
The shop? It was a success. And Aveline wasn't the only one rolling in the cash. Within two weeks, shopkeepers began noticing that women who could barely afford bread were suddenly buying cloaks, hairpins, even little trinkets for their children.
Within a month—
The workshop was nearly full every day.
The rhythmic hum of the Solen-powered sewing machines filled the air from morning till late afternoon. Dozens of women worked together in harmony—some cutting fabric, some stitching, some organizing finished garments into neat piles labeled by size and style.
Bright dresses dyed with affordable berry pigments.
Thick winter cloaks that wouldn't tear under strain.
Simple shirts and trousers meant for daily labor.
Everett played his part well too. Being an equal partner, he took on the parts he could. Everett was responsible for providing the shop with raw material. He first started with cheaper cloth, allowing the women to learn and mess up without any big losses. As the talent of the seamstresses grew, so did the quality of the cloth he brought in. Now, Atelier had not just different sizes of clothes, but different qualities depending on how much the customer can pay.
And the quality rose several levels higher with the cost. However, Everett was a businessman to the core. He knew that the cost of the garment shouldn't just be about the quality, but the rarity of it. Although many women working in the shop were talented, not all of them were at the level where they can handle expensive fabric, only one or two out of the bunch. So the higher the quality, the lower their availability. Due to the lower number of high quality clothing available, the cost was undoubtedly higher as well. The quality was so unexpectedly high that customers started coming from outside the side area and from the main street too.
Aveline could barely keep up.
******************************
On the second floor—converted into a workroom after Everett hired carpenters—Aveline sat surrounded by ledgers and fabric samples. Her fingers flew across the parchment as she wrote calculations, adjusting production numbers.
She didn't look up until Everett burst in, panting.
"Ava, good news and bad news."
She sighed. "Start with the good."
He tossed a pouch onto her desk. It clinked loudly. "We sold out. Every single item from yesterday's batch. Even the winter cloaks."
Her brow lifted. "All of them?"
"Every one."
That should have made her smile. Instead, a heaviness settled over her.
"And the bad news?"
Everett slumped against the shelf. "Some merchants from the upper districts came to inspect the clothes. They didn't cause trouble. Yet. But…"
"But they want to know who's behind the workshop," she finished for him.
Everett nodded. "They were asking around. Too curious. Way too curious."
Aveline's jaw tightened.
The plan had always been to help the commoners quietly—without drawing attention from the noble class. Faylinn nobility wasn't fond of change, especially when it came from the slums.
But success rarely stayed hidden.
**********************************
That afternoon, the first confrontation came through the front doors.
Lira—now acting as a supervisor—rushed up the stairs. "Mistress Evora! The Tailors' Guild is here."
Aveline's quill froze mid-sentence.
Everett swore under his breath.
Downstairs, three men in immaculate coats stood near the entrance, watching the workshop with faces carved from stone. Their guild pins gleamed silver in the afternoon light. It was like someone took this entourage straight out of a bad movie. The tree men looked typical of any ruffian businessmen. One of the them was tall and lanky, while the other was more on the wider side. The third one was a bald man who had an impressive moustache. Perhaps he wanted to compensate for the hair, Aveline thought and smiled to herself.
Aveline descended the stairs slowly, composed, hands clasped behind her back.
The tallest of the men stepped forward. His voice carried the polished arrogance of someone who'd never worked a day for survival.
"So you are the one running this enterprise, I assume." He said, eyes on Everett.
God forbid they think a woman would be in charge of a business. This is typical of the era, she thought.
Before Everett could response. Aveline inclined her head. "You assume wrong, good sir. I am Mistress Evora, the person running this enterprise."
The man looked taken aback, but regained his composure. "We have… concerns," he said, gesturing at the rows of clothes. "These clothes of yours. They are replacing the work of dozens—hundreds—of trained tailors. Production at this speed will disrupt the market."
She met his gaze. "Then they should improve their production to match."
Everett winced.
The man behind the first stepped forward. His belly almost jiggled, Aveline could swear. "You might think you are clever, but we already know how this business of yours works. There is only one way you're making clothes this fast." He said, voice accusing.
Everett and Aveline both stared at him. How could he know already? Was there a leak in their business? There was no way any of the women would have told anyone. But Aveline knew trust was a poor basis.
Before they could say anything, the man continued in the same accusing tone. "You have no doubt poached many tailors from other businesses. On the front you may be parading around these handful of women, but we know there are hundred of tailors working behind the scene."
Aveline would have laughed with relief had they not been here. The lanky one continued for his friend, staring at Everett. "I know you, Young Lord. You are no doubt said to have much talent in running business. But poaching other business' employees and taking clients away from small business like ours, is that what you want your name to be known for?"
Everett was ready to quip back, but Aveline had beat him to it. "Poaching? And what people do you assume we poached? No need to answer that since I know you can't. And second, take business from small businesses? You men might want to focus more on your business then, if it's that easy to take away customers from you. Might I suggest putting more thought on your clothing, or perhaps putting less thought towards intimidating other shops so you can swindle them for cash?" she said, voice innocent like a young girls. The perfect taunt for old men like them.
It was the third man who spoke then, his moustache wiggling with each word he spoke. "You are playing a dangerous game, girl. Selling or making clothes without approval from the Tailors' Guild is prohibited."
Aveline smiled politely. "And yet, here we are. Besides, that's just a dumb rule you made for yourselves. I have no plans on joining the Tailor's Guild, nor follow any of your laws. And so, I have no need for your approval"
Whispers rippled among the women behind her. Some clutched their garments nervously, but most stood firm.
This workshop had already changed their lives. They wouldn't let the guild take it away.
The man narrowed his eyes. "We will be back—with an official order from the city magistrate. Expect it within the week."
They turned sharply and left.
Everett groaned. "Ava. Why—why would you say that?"
She crossed her arms. "Because I refuse to let them intimidate women who finally have a chance at security."
"Security won't matter if we're shut down."
"We won't be."
Her voice carried steel, but she felt uncertainty coil in her chest.
For every problem she solved, three more threatened to appear.
*****************************************
That evening, after the workers went home, Aveline remained behind to clean the scraps of fabric off the tables.
Everett joined her, carrying a warm mug of spiced milk. "I know you won't stop," he said softly. "But maybe… be cautious? You're not alone in this. They'll come after the workers too."
Aveline leaned against a table, staring at her invention. Her sewing machines hummed quietly, their Solen crystals pulsing like sleeping hearts.
"I won't let them take this away," she murmured. "Not after seeing what it means to them."
"To who?"
"To women who've been invisible their whole lives."
Everett didn't argue.
He just placed a hand over hers. "Then we'll fight smart. I'll start gathering paperwork, speak to the magistrate before they reach him. Maybe there's a loophole."
She turned her hand to squeeze his. "Thank you."
"You're my sister," Everett said simply. "And besides… this workshop is the first truly good thing I've ever been part of."
***********************************
Success never arrived quietly.
At first, Aveline noticed it in small ways.
Orders arrived late.
Fabric shipments were delayed without explanation.
A merchant who once greeted her warmly suddenly refused to meet her eyes.
Then the notices appeared.
"Unlicensed production violates guild law."
"Mass tailoring without guild sanction is prohibited."
They were stamped with the sigil of the Tailors' Guild.
Aveline stood in her office, the parchment held loosely between her fingers, her expression unreadable. Outside, the steady rhythm of work continued—the hum of productivity, the laughter of women who had found steady wages for the first time in their lives.
Everett leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"They've finally noticed you."
Aveline chuckled slightly. "Not in a nice way though. I should have expected this sooner."
The Tailors' Guild had ruled the trade for centuries. They controlled apprenticeships and decided who was allowed to sew for profit. What Aveline had done—outsourcing work, accelerating production, and bypassing their approval—was an unforgivable disruption.
"They can't see the machines," Everett said quietly.
"No," Aveline replied. "But they can see the results."
And results threatened power.
*********************************************
The first real blow came three days later.
A group of inspectors arrived unannounced at her workshop, dressed in heavy cloaks embroidered with guild insignia. They demanded records, questioned workers, and measured output with sharp, suspicious eyes.
"You produce too much," one of them said flatly.
"Too fast."
Aveline offered a polite smile.
"We employ many hands, inspector. Quick hands."
"Hands do not move like this," the man snapped.
"Ours do" she gave him a smile filled with self satisfying bullshitery.
They found nothing—because there was nothing to find. The Solen-powered machines were hidden, dismantled between shifts, concealed behind false walls and mundane clutter.
But the message was clear.
They would not stop.
The next week, tailors began pulling their contracts.
Not because they wanted to—but because they were threatened.
"They told us we'd lose our guild standing," one man confessed quietly.
"We have families."
Aveline nodded, understanding. She never blamed them.
That night, she sat across from Everett at a small table lit by a single lamp.
"They're trying to starve us out," he said.
"They can try," Aveline replied calmly.
Her eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Ava" Everett said gently. "Not everything has to be a fight, you know"
"What do you mean?" She asked. Her entire life was a fight. Fight was all she knew.
"We could always agree to it. What matters to them is the money. They just need a cut of the profits. Other than that, they'll simply set the number of garments we can make in a week. We can still sell clothes."
"We aren't just selling clothes, Everett." She said, exasperated that he would even suggest backing down. "Do you think our clothes are unique? Is the fabric we use bestowed by the Gods, or are our designs the first of their kind? No. They are not. We sell clothes. And so does every other bloody tailor in this Kingdom."
"But we have speed." She continued. "We have speed and quantity, and that too without comprising on time and quality. Without that, we're just another tailor shop"
"You're right. But what can we do? Do you want to take on the entire Tailor's Guild? We're not big enough for that. And its not like we can cut them up and take them on one shop at a time." Everett sighed. There was no end to this problem.
That's when it struck her. An idea. Perhaps Everett was right. They couldn't cut them up and take them one on one. But maybe they could do the opposite. Something that was bitter sweet for her.
*************************************
Instead of confronting the Guild, Aveline did something unexpected.
She complied.
Publicly.
She scaled back visible production. Reduced storefront hours. Let rumors spread that demand had overwhelmed her capacity. The Guild relaxed—slightly.
Behind the scenes, she pivoted.
She restructured the business.
Instead of producing garments under her name, she created a network of workshops, branches of the Atelier tailoring shop. She can't believe she didn't think of it before.
Aveline realized that it wasn't right for her to come in and expect everything to change in the world. This is the era she was living in. And she had to compromise on some level. The Tailor's Guild couldn't be shut down simply because she wanted to.
So she did what was common in the world she came from. Created multiple branches of the same shop. Each shop would only have a number of clothing items available and could only take a specific number of custom orders.
At the core, Atelier was still doing fine, better even. They had multiple places where they opened up shop so people could go wherever was nearest to them. If one palace didn;t have the clothes they want, or the right size, they could always go to another branch.
The branches themselves were led by trustworthy people, hand selected by Everett. A lot of them were people he had worked with for years and if Everett trusted them, then so could Aveline.
The workshops produced at their own pace—slow enough to appear mundane, fast enough to meet demand.
And the machines?
Never stayed in one place.
Everett oversaw logistics personally, moving components discreetly, ensuring no single location ever appeared suspicious.
"Even if they investigate," Everett said one night, reviewing ledgers,
"They'll only find normal workshops."
"Exactly," Aveline replied.
"Let them drown in legality."
************************
The Tailors' Guild summoned her a month later.
This time, they were cautious.
"You've… adapted," the Guildmaster said stiffly.
Aveline inclined her head.
"As any businesswoman must."
"You are undercutting traditional tailors."
"I am employing them," she corrected gently.
Silence followed.
Because it was true.
Guild members were earning more through her contracts than they had in years. Families were fed. Apprentices trained faster. And the Guild—despite its outrage—could not deny the numbers. They now had a variety of shops giving them their fees. It was more profitable for them to let Aveline run as she was doing than to cut down the shop.
And that was the plan she came up with. Make it so the Tailor's Guild was tied down by the very thing they sought to destroy Atelier for, money.
"You're breaking tradition," the Guildmaster said. "Something like this has never been done before."
Aveline met his gaze evenly.
"No. I'm proving that tradition must evolve—or be replaced."
She offered them a compromise.
Guild recognition for her workshops.
Standardized wages.
Exclusive contracts for large-scale orders.
In return?
They stopped interfering.
And quietly took credit for "modernizing the trade."
Everett later laughed himself hoarse when he heard that part.
"They think they won," he said.
Aveline smiled faintly.
"They survived. That's enough for them."
***************************
The Tailors' Guild backed down without ever realizing what they had been up against.
No one discovered the machines.
No laws were broken.
No blood was spilled.
And Aveline learned something invaluable.
Power didn't need to roar.
It could whisper, adapt, and still win.
That night, as she reviewed new orders by candlelight, Everett watched her quietly.
"You know," he said, "most people would've panicked."
Aveline didn't look up.
"Most people wouldn't have had you to help."
Outside, the workshop lights burned long into the night.
And somewhere in the capital, the Tailors' Guild wondered how a single woman had slipped through their fingers—without ever seeming to fight at all.
Success had transformed her business within the first few months, but Aveline knew she had only tapped into the first layer of possibility. The commoners adored her garments, and tailors now relied on her workshop to handle their overflow—but the nobles? They remained untouched.
Aveline intended to change that.
She watched the carriages roll past the slums every morning, carrying finely dressed noblewomen wrapped in imported silks. And she realized something:
Commoners kept a household afloat.
Nobles built empires.
And she needed influence if she intended to leave the Faylinn estate one day on her own terms.
***********************************
It began with a girl named Serah—one of the newer hires, barely seventeen, quiet, always sitting at the corner table. She stitched faster than most, but what caught Aveline's eye wasn't her speed.
It was the sketchbook she kept half-hidden under a stack of cloth.
One evening, after the workers had left, Aveline found the book on the table, forgotten. She hesitated only for a moment before opening it.
Her breath caught.
Dozens of designs filled the pages—intricate gowns shaped like flowing water, cloaks that resembled dragon wings, embroidered patterns inspired by frost and moonlight. The artistry was unlike anything the nobles wore.
It was bold.
Refreshing.
And unmistakably brilliant.
The next morning, Aveline called Serah to her office.
Serah entered nervously, smoothing her simple apron.
"D–Did I make a mistake, Mistress Evora?"
Aveline placed the sketchbook on the desk.
"You drew these."
Serah's face turned pale. "I—I'm sorry, my lady. I only draw for fun. I won't do it during work again—"
Aveline shook her head. "Do you want to design clothes for me?"
Serah froze.
Then slowly, hope flickered in her eyes like a trembling candle.
"Yes," she whispered. "More than anything."
Aveline smiled. "Then you will."
*****************************
The plan came together quickly.
Aveline rented a small but elegant building in the capital's upper district—a stark contrast from the lively workshop in the slums. With Everett's help, they renovated it into a refined boutique, its walls painted ivory and gold, its windows displaying exquisite fabrics only nobles could afford.
The name was simple, yet powerful:
Evora Atelier Royale.
Visitors whispered about it before its doors even opened.
It was said that the mysterious Mistress Evora, known for revolutionizing commoner fashion, was preparing something entirely new—exclusive designs for the highest tiers of society. Rumors spread by Everett himself.
Serah became the heart of the atelier.
Aveline gave her a private room, stacks of fine fabrics, and enchanted Solen lamps for better lighting. Serah spent hours sketching, cutting, and shaping prototypes, her hands trembling the first time she touched imported velvet.
"You're not just making clothes," Aveline reminded her gently.
"You're making statements."
*********************
Just like in the slums, Aveline installed a smaller, quieter Solen-powered sewing machine in the backroom—this time hidden behind a sliding panel beneath a decorative tapestry.
Only Serah and Aveline could use it.
They produced flawless gowns in days, not weeks.
Aveline intentionally priced the work high. Nobles, after all, valued exclusivity. And once the first noblewoman—Lady Arwen Belclaire—wore a cascading midnight-blue gown from Evora Atelier Royale to a banquet, the boutique became a phenomenon.
That too, was thanks to Everett, who had happened to be out with Lady Belclaire and just so happened to pop into a shop that caught his eye.
Every noblewoman in the capital wanted a dress.
Every tailor wanted to see the atelier's methods.
And every rumor only heightened the allure.
"Is Mistress Evora blessed by the ancient spirits?"
"Did she learn in the Imperial Palace?"
"Are her dresses imbued with magic?"
Aveline let them wonder.
**************************************
Soon, nobles flocked to the atelier:
Marquises ordering wedding gowns for their daughters.
Young noblemen requesting embroidered cloaks.
Ladies visiting for fittings several times a month.
Aveline always greeted them with a mask of calm refinement, but inside, she marveled at how far she had come. From secrecy in the slums to dominating noble fashion—this was influence, quiet and powerful.
And Serah…
Serah blossomed.
She held consultations, drew personalized designs, and occasionally squealed in excitement before catching herself and bowing politely.
Aveline let her keep the spotlight.
She preferred the shadows—quiet, strategic, and unchallenged.
One step closer to independence.
One step closer to building a life far from Faylinn.
And one step closer to changing the world in her own quiet way.
***************
Within a few years, Evora became not just a name known by the people, but a trend. She Continued to grow and explore businesses. Once the fashion industry was stably within her grasp and Atelier had grown to fame, she went on to open bakeries.
The same logic applied here. She knew of the different sweets and savory items she could create, some the Empire had not seen or tried yet. The problem was getting the ingredients, but Everett was always there to help. She made a new appliance for her baking business, one which is essential for any bakery, a whisking machine.
The bakery took the world by storm. Her new items brought a taste never before tasted. She soon opened up cafes serving coffee and tea, along with her baked goods.
But she didn't stop yet. She continued to develop her business. Evora soon opened exclusive clubs where people could get all that she had to offer and more. The clubs were made on vast land where noblemen could enjoy riding horses, lounging around, drink coffee, and more.
Now, Aveline not only had noblewomen crazy for her, but also noblemen.
And Mistress Evora became a name well known among the people. No one knew what she really looked like, but everyone knew she must be rich. And she was.
Aveline knew exactly what she was going to use her money for.