The royal sewing hall of Velmora was not built to welcome people. It was built to command obedience.
Tall arched windows lined the stone walls, yet none of them opened. Light entered only through enchanted glass, filtered and pale, turning the room into a place forever caught between dawn and dusk. The air smelled faintly of wax, old silk, and something metallic beneath it all, like rain caught in iron.
Five looms stood in a perfect circle at the center of the hall.
They were ancient things, carved from dark wood that had long ago lost its grain. Silver runes were etched along their frames, dulled by age but still humming softly, as if remembering the hands that had once worked them. Above each loom hung a single lantern, its flame unnaturally still.
Aven sat at the fifth loom.
She had been seated there for less than an hour, yet her back already ached and her fingers felt strangely numb. The silk draped across her loom was the finest she had ever touched—royal-grade fabric woven so tightly it felt less like cloth and more like skin. Ivory white, threaded with gold, it shimmered even when she did not move.
She swallowed and guided her needle forward.
Across the circle, the other seamstresses worked in silence.
Mira sat to Aven's left, her posture relaxed, her lips curved in a faint smile as she stitched. She was young, barely older than Aven, with nimble fingers and a habit of humming while she worked. Elene sat opposite Aven, her brow furrowed in concentration, shoulders tense as if she expected the cloth to bite back. Rysa, thin and sharp-eyed, kept glancing toward the sealed doors. Old Ketta sat nearest the wall, her hands steady despite their age, her lips moving in constant prayer.
Five women. One garment.
The coronation cloak of King Alaric.
Aven had never seen the king in person, but she had heard enough stories. Velmora was prosperous, powerful, and merciless to those who disappointed it. Royal commissions were considered blessings. Refusal was unthinkable.
The overseer's voice echoed in her memory.
Perfect stitches. Follow the pattern. No mistakes.
Aven exhaled slowly and lowered her gaze to the fabric.
The pattern was already drawn, faint lines visible only when the light struck at the correct angle. It was intricate beyond reason, looping and spiraling inward, every curve intersecting another with mathematical precision. Aven had copied patterns her entire life, but this one made her uneasy.
It felt wrong.
Her needle pierced the silk.
There was resistance.
Not much—just enough for her to notice. As if the cloth hesitated before allowing the stitch. Aven paused, her fingers tightening around the needle.
Silk was not supposed to resist.
She glanced around the room. None of the others seemed to notice. The soft sound of needles passing through fabric filled the hall, rhythmic and subdued.
Aven resumed sewing.
As the minutes passed, the sensation did not fade. Each stitch felt like pressing into something that pushed back. The fabric warmed beneath her hands, not unpleasantly, but noticeably.
She told herself it was nerves.
This was the palace. Everything here felt heavier.
Mira's humming grew louder.
It was a simple tune, light and cheerful, utterly out of place in the oppressive quiet of the hall. Aven glanced up and caught Mira's eye.
Mira smiled. "Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered.
Aven hesitated. The words stuck in her throat.
Before she could answer, one of the lanterns flickered.
The flame twisted, stretching upward, then snapped back into place. The air grew colder.
Mira laughed.
It was a sharp sound, too sudden. Her shoulders shook as she continued stitching, her needle moving faster than before.
"Mira?" Elene whispered.
The humming turned into breathless giggles. Mira's needle blurred, thread flying through the silk as though pulled by invisible hands.
Aven's heart began to pound.
"Mira," Aven said softly, rising from her seat.
Mira stopped.
Her needle froze midair.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
Her eyes were empty.
Not dark. Not lifeless. Simply vacant, like windows in an abandoned house.
The silk beneath her hands pulsed.
Mira slumped forward, collapsing against the loom. The needle clattered to the floor, its sound impossibly loud.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the doors at the far end of the hall burst open.
Guards rushed in, their boots striking stone in harsh contrast to the stillness. The overseer followed, face pale, eyes darting from Mira to the cloth.
"She fainted," Elene whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.
The overseer did not answer.
Two guards lifted Mira's body. Her head lolled back, mouth slightly open, breath shallow but present. She was alive.
Yet something was missing.
Aven stared at the fabric on Mira's loom.
The section Mira had worked on gleamed brighter than the rest, gold threads catching the light with unnatural intensity. It looked… satisfied.
"Remove her," the overseer said quietly.
No prayers were spoken. No explanations given.
Mira was carried out.
The doors sealed shut behind her.
Silence returned, heavier than before.
"Continue," the overseer ordered.
Hands trembling, Aven sat back down.
Her fingers hovered over the silk, dread curling in her stomach. She wanted to scream, to run, to demand answers. Instead, she lowered her needle and stitched.
That night, when the seamstresses were finally dismissed, Aven could not sleep.
She lay on her narrow cot in the servants' quarters, staring at the ceiling as shadows twisted into shapes she did not recognize. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw thread crawling across her skin, tightening around her chest until she could not breathe.
She woke before dawn, gasping.
When she returned to the sewing hall, Mira's loom was empty.
The fabric remained.
The pattern was unchanged.
Aven's hands shook as she took her seat.
Elene looked worse than the night before. Dark circles bruised her eyes, and her lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line. Rysa's foot bounced constantly, her gaze locked on the door. Old Ketta murmured prayers louder now, her fingers moving faster.
The overseer stood watch.
"Begin," he said.
Aven stitched.
She watched the pattern more closely this time.
As her needle followed the faint lines, she noticed something subtle. The curves did not simply decorate the cloth—they pulled inward, tightening toward a central point. Every completed stitch seemed to draw the surrounding lines closer together.
Like a net closing.
Her breath caught.
She pricked her finger.
A drop of blood welled and fell onto the silk.
The fabric reacted instantly.
It pulsed beneath her hands, warmth surging outward from the spot where her blood touched. The gold threads flared, then settled.
Aven yanked her hand back, heart racing.
The silk whispered.
Not in words, but in sensation. Hunger. Anticipation. Patience.
Aven's grandmother's voice echoed in her mind, brittle and sharp as breaking thread.
If cloth pulls back, child, don't pull harder. Some patterns are meant to bind.
Aven swallowed.
This was not a garment.
It was a cage.
And it was not finished.
She lifted her gaze and met Elene's eyes across the room.
Elene looked afraid.
For the first time, Aven understood why there were five looms.
And why the pattern demanded perfection.
The cloth did not want mistakes.
It wanted souls.