The prototype was done.
Leia stepped back from the worktable and let out a quiet breath. The shed, dim and worn, suddenly felt like a temple.
Hung on the wall, gleaming subtly in the low light, was the Cloak of Hold.
A deep green cloak, earthy and silent. Its outer layer was soft but strong, the color of moss under moonlight. The inner weave, reinforced with bone-thread and salvaged armor silk, formed a dense pattern of protective spirals. Along the shoulders, almost invisible unless caught by angled light, lay a string of runes — ancient glyphs from the book, locked into place with her own blood and patience.
Leia reached out, fingertips brushing the hem.
It was heavier now — on purpose.
A weighted edge for balance and grip in motion. Every inch of it had meaning. Every seam whispered her story.
And now, it had to be tested.
---
Snip was the first she told.
"You want who to hit you?" he asked, almost dropping the broom he was holding.
Leia pulled the cloak on, fastening the brass clasp at her collarbone. "Korin. The baker's boy. He awakened last spring. Blunt-force field. D-Rank."
Snip whistled low. "You're serious."
"I'm serious."
---
Korin stood awkwardly in the alley behind the bakery, cracking his knuckles. "You sure you wanna do this? I don't hold back much."
Leia nodded once. "Just one strike. Aim for the chest."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Alright. On your word."
The alley had a few quiet eyes — old women hanging laundry, a young boy on a crate chewing dried fruit.
Leia planted her feet. Cloak in place. Heart steady.
"Now."
Korin drew his fist back. His palm glowed with faint gold — the telltale shimmer of his ability sparking to life.
He lunged.
Boom.
The force hit her square in the chest.
The air cracked.
Leia stumbled back three steps, boots skidding on gravel — but she did not fall.
The cloak flashed once. Then dimmed.
She gasped, winded, but upright.
Korin froze. "No way…"
Leia unclasped the cloak and pulled it off slowly. The shoulder seam smoked faintly. A rune flickered under the edge.
She looked down at her hand. It trembled slightly.
Drained — yes.
But standing.
And the cloak?
Still intact.
---
Snip ran up, eyes wide. "It worked. Leia—it actually—!"
Korin stepped closer, inspecting the cloak with awe. "That shouldn't be possible. My hits knock people flat. I've cracked stone, Leia."
She held the cloak out and looked at it with something like reverence.
"It held," she whispered. "It actually held."
---
That night, she hung the cloak on the wall again — not folded, but displayed.
Like a banner.
A proof.
She touched the rune on the shoulder and smiled faintly.
"You're not just thread anymore," she murmured. "You're a shield."
Her wrist tingled softly.
Not in pain.
But in bond.
---
Far across the city, under a slanted roof and behind a flickering glass lens, a man leaned forward, watching a memory crystal swirl with light.
He tapped the edge and watched Leia stumble but remain standing.
He smiled.
"Stitchcraft," he muttered. "Real stitchcraft."
His assistant said nothing.
But he began packing a bag.
---