Isadora stood before the crooked mirror, holding her first creation.
It was a gown, technically. But it moved like a threat. Silvery-gray linen shimmered with threadglam illusions, stitched to catch light like moonlight on water. The high collar whispered intimidation. The subtle ruffle at the hem screamed: "I will outdress your bloodline."
She turned slowly.
The mirror cracked. Not from damage, out of respect.
The villagers of Duskwool had laughed at first.
"She wants to make dresses?""In this economy?""She called my apron a textile disgrace!'"
But then...
Old Widow Marla wore a glamour-stitched mourning shawl that made her look twenty years younger. Farmer Brigg's cloak repelled rain and criticism. Tansy's wedding dress literally glowed with enchantments of love and wrinkle resistance.
Soon, there were lines.
Soon after, there were nobles.
A sleek, haughty woman stepped down from her carriage, sneering at the village square like it had personally insulted her manicure.
"I was told," she said, fanning herself with an enchanted lace fan, "that a commoner in this forgotten mud hole sews dresses that make duchesses weep."
Isadora, now wearing a full-length rose-stitched coat with a dramatic collar and zero apology, raised an eyebrow.
"I do," she said. "Now state your desired level of drama. Scale of one to scandal."
Baroness Eloira narrowed her eyes. "Scandal. Obviously."
"Pearls or cursed rubies?"
"Surprise me."
Threadweaving: Activated
Isadora's fingers moved like a conductor's baton. Spools floated. Threads danced in the air like silk serpents. Needles spun through fabric without touch. Her magic hummed with defiance, confidence, and raw couture energy.
Every stitch told a story. Every hem whispered of high society tears.
When she was done, the gown stood on the mannequin like it owned the kingdom.
Baroness Eloira gasped. "I look... illegal in this."
"You're welcome," Isadora said, sipping tea without sugar, because sweetness was for amateurs.
Word spread fast:
"She makes you feel like a main character!""I heard a woman divorced her husband because her dress was too powerful.""There's a scarf that causes existential dread in your rivals!"
Soon, Isadora had three apprentices, all terrified and stylish.
Her shack expanded into a boutique. Then two.
The village elders offered her the old smithy, which she converted into a runway forge. Her gowns had armor-grade reinforcement and subtle passive-aggressive enchantments.
She renamed the business:
"House Thorne: Elegance by Obliteration."
One Afternoon...
A royal messenger arrived on horseback.
"Delivery for Lady Isadora," he announced.
She narrowed her eyes. "Lady? I'm not a lady anymore."
"Oh," the messenger said, panicked. "My mistake—"
"No, no," she said with a wicked smile. "Say it again."
He coughed. "M-Miss Isadora."
She beamed. "Excellent. Now give me the scroll."
To Miss Isadora of Duskwool,It has come to our attention that several of your dresses have caused riots, tears, and one noble duel (re: hemline envy).Please consider presenting your collection at the Grand Atelier Showcase in the capital.A noble title and landholding may be considered based on public reception.— Ministry of Aesthetics, Royal Fashion Council
She read it once. Then twice.
Then she laughed.
"Oh, Riku," she whispered, staring at the heavens. "You really thought you could humble me with burlap."
She walked to her armoire, flung it open, and selected a cape made of crushed velvet, embroidered with phrases in Latin that translated to: "Cry Harder."
"I am going to the capital," she declared, "and I am going to ruin someone's bloodline with a dress."
Riku stared at the report.
"She's built an empire."
Ginger Snap: "She opened a fashion forge."
Macaron: "She filed a trademark for something called 'emotional thread-kill.'"
Riku sipped his tea. "I am... so proud. And slightly scared."