The Brindleport Guild was buzzing with anticipation. Banners of stitched silk hung from the rafters, their shimmering threads catching the light as if they had a life of their own. The training yard had been transformed into a colorful arena lined with benches, food stalls, and a judging platform draped in guild insignia. A crowd of adventurers, merchants, children, and curious townsfolk pressed in close, eager to watch the "Stitch War Trials" — a contest where seamworkers, threadweavers, and stitch-mages pitted their craft (and their creations) against each other.
Nyra hadn't wanted to enter. She preferred fixing hems, patching cloaks, and stitching Button's seams in peace. But the guild insisted, and Button's silent, unblinking support left her no excuse. When she had tried to wriggle free, Button had simply tilted his massive plush head, folding his arms until she sighed in defeat. "Fine," she muttered, cheeks puffing, "but if I get trampled by a quilt, it's on you."
Button's button eyes glimmered faintly in reply, which Nyra interpreted as smug approval.
Her first match was comical. A nervous apprentice shuffled forward, sweat dripping down his brow as he tried to animate a patchwork chicken. It squawked once, puffed up its lopsided wings, then collapsed into a pile of fabric scraps before waddling off stage in shame. The crowd burst into laughter, and Biscuit popped out of Nyra's bag to let out a smug little growl that made the audience laugh harder. "Behave," Nyra whispered, trying not to smile.
"Hey, that was cruel!" the apprentice protested from the sidelines, though even he was laughing a little. "It was my first time!"
"Then maybe start with a scarf next time," someone in the crowd heckled, setting off more laughter.
The second match was trickier. A rival stitchmage with too much confidence sent living quilts fluttering through the air. They smothered like suffocating blankets, one nearly wrapping around Nyra herself before Button batted it aside.
"Stay still, little girl, you can't dodge forever," the rival sneered.
"Oh yeah?" Nyra shot back, tugging her needle free. "Let's see your quilt deal with a fire sneeze."
Puff leapt in, sneezing out bursts of fire until the quilts flailed in panic, their edges singed and smoking. Sprout lashed vines around them, dragging the enchanted cloth into a tangled knot. The rival's eyes flicked nervously to Button, who simply took a single step forward. His looming shadow fell across the mage.
"Er… I yield!" the man yelped, hands raised. The crowd roared approval, shouting jokes about roasted bedding and trussed-up quilts.
Then came the final opponent: a cold-eyed seamcaster dressed in black, whose construct was no toy but a warrior stitched from armored cloth, bristling with steel-thread seams that gleamed like blades. The creature strode forward with terrifying precision.
"This isn't a game, child," the seamcaster intoned. "I'll tear your bear apart and scatter your toys."
Button's head swiveled slowly toward him, eyes flashing red. The crowd hissed with excitement.
The warrior struck. Button blocked the first blow but staggered beneath the impact. Puff darted bravely in, only to be swatted aside and knocked unconscious in a puff of smoke. "Puff!" Nyra cried. Biscuit soared overhead, claws outstretched, but a vicious backhand tore his stitched wings mid-flight, sending him tumbling.
"Stay down, girl," the seamcaster taunted. "You're outmatched."
"No," Nyra said through clenched teeth, hands trembling. She tried spell after spell, but her magical thread snapped again and again against the construct's reinforced seams. Sweat ran down her temple. Panic tugged at her chest.
The crowd shouted encouragement. "You can do it, Nyra!" one child cried. "Go, Button!" another added. Nyra bit her lip. In her mind, she remembered the Horror in Pinehollow — how its corrupted seams had hesitated, almost listened.
Her breath caught. What if she didn't fight the bindings? What if she called for them to let go?
Clutching her needle, she whispered, voice trembling but firm: "Unravel."
The armored construct stiffened. The seamcaster's smug expression faltered. "What are you doing—?" he barked, tugging on his own thread controls.
Nyra's thread glowed, piercing into the steel seams, not binding but coaxing them apart. A gasp rippled through the stands as its glowing seams slowly peeled open, thread by thread.
"Impossible," the seamcaster muttered, eyes wide. "That's… forbidden magic—"
The warrior collapsed in a rain of cloth and steel-thread coils, falling to the arena floor like shed skin.
For one stunned heartbeat, there was silence. Then the entire guild hall erupted into cheers and applause, the sound crashing over Nyra like a wave. "Nyra! Nyra!" voices chanted. Children clapped, merchants shouted her name, and Button crouched slightly so she could lean against his arm.
She stood trembling but smiling, clutching Button's massive paw. The guild master beamed, raising her small hand high for all to see. "The champion of the Stitch War Trials — Nyra Bellwool!"
"Nyra! That was amazing!" Tovan shouted from the sidelines, pumping a fist. "You've got more guts than the rest of them put together."
That night, while Button loomed silently at her bedside like a watchful sentinel, Nyra pushed open the window to let in the night air. The moonlight spilled across her sewing kit — and there it was: a single black thread tied neatly into a bow on the sill. No note. No explanation. Just a calling card. The Unraveler's warning: I'm watching.