Isabela looked at the tear.
She looked at her hands.
She looked at the Tailor, who had returned to his work as if the most meaningful statement of the last few hours had simply been factual information.
"Because you're ready."
Not praise. Not encouragement.
Just a conclusion.
She began the difficult stitch.
With a swordsman's breathing.
With the attention of someone who knew precision had no shortcut.
With the new awareness that the two things had always been the same.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Without stopping, she sewed, fast, each stitch following the last without pausing to think, only rhythm.
"This is like practicing a sword thrust." She thought, her fingers guiding the needle. "Except with my fingers. And a tiny sword."
She threw the needle upward.
Valtherion flames wrapped around its tip, not burning the metal, dancing around it as if fire had learned to respect small shapes. The needle fell, her fingers guiding it from below, and pierced the fabric perfectly.
