The palace doors did not open.
They burst.
Wood splintered inward as Captain Varrek and three guards forced their way into the ruined atelier, swords drawn, boots crunching over broken glass and fallen spools. They froze the moment they saw the room—cracked walls, burned symbols fading from stone, scraps of glowing silk strewn like shed skin.
And five women standing where none should have been.
Varrek's sword lowered inch by inch. "By the Crown…" he breathed.
Maelin straightened first, chin high despite the tremor in her hands. Rosa clutched her sleeve. Thyra hid half behind Old Senna, who leaned heavily on the table but refused to sit. Luthien said nothing, her eyes never leaving the torn fabric on the floor.
Elira tried to stand.
Her legs buckled.
Varrek caught her before she hit the ground. Up close, his armor smelled of oil and iron and fear. "Easy," he said, voice low. "You look like you wrestled a storm."
"I did," Elira murmured. "And it ran away."
The words had barely left her mouth when the palace shuddered again.
Not a distant tremor.
This was closer. Sharper.
A scream echoed from somewhere below—human, terrified, abruptly cut short.
Luthien's head snapped up. "It's not bound anymore."
Old Senna nodded grimly. "No. It learned."
Varrek swore and turned to his men. "Seal this wing. No one in or out."
One guard hesitated. "Captain… what is it?"
Elira forced herself upright, gripping the table. "A curse that fed on obedience," she said. "Now it's hungry for something else."
As if summoned by her words, the torn scraps of silk on the floor twitched.
They slid together, threads crawling and fusing, pulling themselves toward the open doorway like spilled ink seeking a drain. The glow they once held was gone—replaced by a dull, bruised darkness.
Rosa whimpered. "It's leaving."
"No," Luthien said quietly. "It's spreading."
Varrek drew his sword again. "I can cut cloth."
"That won't help," Elira said. "It's not cloth anymore."
The scraps slipped under the door and vanished.
The palace groaned.
Then came footsteps.
Not boots. Not paws.
Bare feet slapping stone, wet and uneven, moving far too fast.
They echoed up the corridor.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Closer.
Varrek positioned himself between Elira and the door. "Stay behind me."
The doorframe darkened.
Something passed by—tall, wrong-limbed, its shadow lagging half a second behind its movement. Threads trailed from it like veins, dissolving as they touched the air.
The guards went pale.
"That used to be a servant," Maelin whispered.
The thing turned its head.
Where a face should have been, there was only stretched skin etched with half-formed symbols—patterns trying and failing to hold shape.
It spoke.
"I obeyed."
The words came out in many voices.
Varrek charged.
His sword passed straight through the creature, slicing shadow and smoke. The thing recoiled, not wounded but annoyed. It backhanded him across the room. He hit the wall and slid down, armor ringing.
"Elira!" Thyra screamed.
Elira grabbed the ash-gray thread and ran.
She looped it around a fallen loom pedal, then hurled the end toward the creature. The thread wrapped around its arm—not binding, but marking. The ash glowed faintly.
The creature shrieked.
Symbols peeled from its skin like scabs, fluttering away and burning out midair.
"It remembers being human," Elira realized. "That's the weakness."
Old Senna nodded sharply. "Then remind it."
Elira stepped forward, heart pounding. "What's your name?" she called.
The creature staggered.
"I… don't…"
"Say it," Elira urged. "You had one before obedience stole it."
The thing convulsed. The symbols cracked. A man's face flickered beneath the curse—young, terrified.
"Arlen," he whispered.
The ash thread flared.
With a sound like tearing cloth, the curse peeled away from him, collapsing into a formless mass that skittered down the hall and vanished through the floor.
Arlen fell, breathing hard.
Silence crashed down around them.
Varrek groaned and pushed himself up. "So," he said hoarsely. "It can walk. It can wear people."
Elira stared at the spot where the curse had fled. "And it's learning faster than I am."
Luthien's gaze hardened. "Then we don't wait."
Maelin squared her shoulders. "We hunt it."
Old Senna smiled grimly. "With needles and names."
The palace bell rang once—deep and commanding.
The Queen was calling.
Elira tightened her grip on the ash thread.
Breaking the curse had been the beginning.
Stopping it would require war—not with swords, but with memory, defiance, and hands that refused to obey.
And somewhere beneath the palace, the curse laughed.