The cut did not close.
That was the first thing Elira noticed.
She stood frozen in the center of the royal atelier, the shears still raised in her trembling hand. The cloth lay spread across the cutting table, no longer elegant, no longer obedient. Where she had crossed the ancient pattern, light leaked through the seams like breath escaping wounded lungs. The glow pulsed, dimmed, then surged again—angry, searching.
The presence beneath the palace stirred.
This time, it did not pretend to sleep.
A deep grinding rolled through the stone floor, so low it felt more like pressure than sound. The walls shuddered. Fine dust drifted from the ceiling beams and settled into Elira's hair. Somewhere below, something ancient shifted, and the palace groaned as if protesting its own existence.
Elira pressed a hand to the table to steady herself.
"So you're awake," she whispered.
The cloth slid.
Not fell. Not fluttered.
It crawled.
Slowly, deliberately, the fabric dragged itself toward the edge of the table, pulling parchment patterns and loose threads with it. The charcoal lines Elira had drawn—her defiance—began to blur, then sink back into the silk as if swallowed by living skin.
All except the crossed cuts.
Those burned brighter, glowing white-hot, resisting.
Defiance hurts, a voice said.
Not the familiar chorus of the five seamstresses.
This voice was singular.
Vast.
Ancient.
It came from everywhere at once—from the walls, the loom, the floor beneath her feet, and from inside her chest.
"You don't belong in cloth," Elira said, forcing herself to stand straight, even as fear crawled up her spine. "You hide in it because you can't survive outside it."
A pause.
Then laughter—deep and slow.
I belong wherever hands obey.
The candles shattered.
Not with fire, but with darkness. Thick black smoke burst outward, filling the room in choking waves. Elira coughed, eyes burning, stumbling backward until her shoulder struck the loom. The wood was warm now. Too warm. As if something inside it had woken too.
Through the smoke, shapes moved.
Threads lifted from the floor, writhing like serpents. Spools rattled, then burst apart, thread uncoiling and snapping into the air. The loom creaked and groaned, pedals slamming down on their own as the shuttle began to weave—fast, furious, without pattern.
The cloth rose.
It lifted from the table and spread itself wide, stretching across the wall like a banner of living silk. Symbols flared across its surface, rearranging, correcting the damage Elira had done.
You think crossing lines breaks me, the voice boomed. But I was born from broken hands. From fear. From obedience sharpened into law.
A thread lashed out.
It wrapped around Elira's ankle and yanked.
She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Before she could recover, more threads coiled around her wrists, her waist, her throat—tightening, cold and merciless.
They begged, the voice continued, tightening its grip. The others. They begged me to take their fear away. To give their work meaning. Permanence.
Faces surfaced in the cloth.
Maelin's sharp smile twisted in pain.Rosa's eyes wide, wet with terror.Thyra shaking, lips moving in silent prayer.Old Senna bent beneath invisible weight.Luthien fading, already half-lost.
"No!" Elira gasped, fighting the threads. "You twisted them!"
They chose, the voice corrected calmly. As all workers do.
The pressure around her throat increased. Her vision dimmed.
And then—memory.
Elira remembered Old Senna's voice, cracked but steady: A seam can hold or it can guide. The choice is yours.
With a desperate motion, Elira twisted her wrist just enough to free two fingers. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out the ash-gray thread.
The humble thread.
The forgotten one.
She bit it, teeth cutting through fiber, and spat the end forward. It struck the glowing cloth and sank in—not resisted, not burned.
The voice faltered.
What is that?
"Choice," Elira rasped.
She wrapped the ash thread around her fingers and pulled.
The threads binding her recoiled as if burned. She tore herself free and stumbled to her feet, pain flaring through her body. Blood ran from a shallow cut on her brow, warm and real.
Elira staggered to the loom.
"This ends," she said, voice shaking but fierce. "You fed on perfection. On symmetry. On silence."
She threaded the loom backward.
Every rule she had ever learned screamed against it. Left became right. Order became interruption. She tied knots where knots were forbidden, crossed threads where lines demanded purity.
The cloth screamed.
The palace shook violently now, stone cracking somewhere deep below. Bells rang—one, two—then fell silent as if swallowed.
Elira began to speak the breaking words, voice raw but steady:
"By thread that bends and does not break,By hands that err and still endure,By names forgotten, names reclaimed—"
The faces in the cloth stirred.
Maelin reached outward.
Rosa sobbed.
Thyra screamed.
Old Senna's eyes opened.
Luthien stepped forward.
Stop! the voice roared, furious now. You will unravel everything!
"That's the point," Elira shouted.
She slammed the shuttle home and pulled with all her strength.
Light exploded outward, ripping through the atelier in a blinding wave. The cloth tore—not cleanly, not beautifully—but violently, seams bursting apart as shadows screamed and burned away.
The threads fell limp.
The loom went silent.
The ancient presence recoiled, retreating downward with a sound like stone collapsing into water.
When the light faded, the room was ruined.
Broken candles. Cracked walls. Torn fabric scattered like shed skin.
And standing where the cloth had been—
Five women.
Breathing.
Alive.
Maelin laughed through tears. Rosa collapsed to her knees. Thyra clutched Old Senna as if afraid she might fade again. Luthien bowed her head to Elira, eyes shining.
"You broke it," Senna whispered.
Elira sank to the floor, exhausted beyond words. "No," she said softly. "I wounded it."
Outside the atelier, boots thundered.
The door shook under heavy blows.
"Elira!" Captain Varrek's voice rang out. "Open this door!"
Elira closed her eyes.
Because deep beneath the palace, the curse still breathed.
And next time, it would not hide in cloth.