The first day at Veylan’s Fine Tailoring began before the sun even broke the smog-heavy horizon.

  Ilyari and Tazien arrived at the shop yawning, carrying their oldest clothes and battered boots, exactly as Master Veylan had ordered.

  The door swung open the moment they knocked.

  "Late," Veylan barked, though they weren’t even by more than a minute. He waved them inside without ceremony, already moving deeper into the shop. "Shoes off. You’ll not drag Lower Zone mud across my floors."

  They obeyed, padding barefoot into the dimly lit workspace.

  The shop looked different in the early morning—half-woven garments floated like frozen ghosts in the mana-lit air, and bolts of shimmering fabric spiraled lazily above the cutting tables. The scent of heated mana-thread filled the space, sharp and metallic.

  Veylan tossed each of them a simple linen apron.

  "Put those on. Today, you’re not customers. You’re apprentices."

  Tazien grinned like he found the whole thing hilarious. Ilyari, more wary, tied her apron tight and waited.

  Veylan snapped his fingers sharply.

  "First lesson! There are two rules in my shop: One — everything matters. Two — you will not shame my work, or you will leave."

  He marched them toward the back, past racks of half-completed garments, bolts of velvet, and glass jars filled with rainbow threads.

  "You stitch. You clean. You learn." He tossed a basket of garments toward them. "And if you do well, you'll wear something no peasant or noble will ever forget."

  Tazien caught the basket awkwardly. "That's it?"

  Veylan grinned wolfishly.

  "And when you finish that, you’ll hem three dozen ceremonial cloaks by sunset."

  Tazien groaned theatrically. Ilyari only nodded, determination flashing behind her eyes.

  He set them both before scrap cloth stretched in embroidery rings and demonstrated the simplest stitch — a neat running line, precise and even.

  "Now. You try."

  Tazien caught on almost immediately. His fingers, nimble from years of garden work and wiring scraps for WynData, adapted quickly to the rhythm. In minutes, he was not only mastering the basic stitches but experimenting with tiny flourishes—curves, cross-stitches, even a double-back loop that made Veylan lift a brow in mild surprise.

  Ilyari, on the other hand, struggled.

  Her stitches pulled too tight, then too loose. The thread snagged. The pattern wandered.

  She gritted her teeth, frustration simmering hot under her skin. She realized quickly — this wasn’t just sewing.

  It was like spellwork. Like working the Primordial Glyphs, it was an artform. Every piece had a logic. Every garment told a story.

  Veylan tapped her elbow sharply with his measuring rod. "No good. Precision is patience. Not strength."

  He studied her hands a moment longer, then huffed.

  "You — broom and polish. Go."

  Ilyari stiffened, pride stinging — but she obeyed, snatching the broom with a clench of her jaw.

  Tazien shot her a sympathetic grimace, but she waved him off. She wasn't going to let a needle defeat her.

  Grumbling quietly under her breath, she swept and polished the wide hardwood floors.

  But as she worked, an idea flickered in her mind — a subtle shimmer in the Primordial Glyphs woven faintly into the structure of the wood itself.

  No one would notice — not even Veylan — if she just… enhanced it a little.

  Carefully, she brushed a few invisible glyphs along the edges of the room, whispering old stabilizing runes Ma'Ryn once taught them without even realizing she was passing old knowledge on.

  The effect was instant but subtle: The floor’s surface gleamed to a mirror-like polish, but more importantly — the dust no longer settled. It hovered just above the surface, like a faint invisible barrier. Any sweeping from now on would just drift the dust effortlessly out the door.

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  Efficient. Quiet. Perfect.

  When Veylan finally stomped across the floor after inspecting Tazien’s embroidery work, he slowed, frowning slightly at the unnatural gloss under his boots.

  He bent down, ran a hand over the floor — and found not a speck of grit.

  "Hmph," he grunted, straightening. "If nothing else, girl, you sweep better than half my former apprentices stitched."

  By mid-morning, Ilyari wasn’t just polishing and cutting cloth — she was designing solutions without even realizing it.

  At one point, Veylan paused behind her, studying her hands.

  He said nothing — only gave a single, approving grunt and moved on.

  Tazien noticed and grumbled louder. "Of course she gets the 'good job' grunt."

  "You stitched the sleeve to the collar," Ilyari pointed out dryly, holding up his disastrous attempt.

  Tazien scowled and started ripping the stitches. "It’s a bold new look."

  "You’ll boldly get fired," she said, laughing for the first time in what felt like days.

  The shop bell chimed, cutting into the laughter.

  Master Veylan straightened immediately, smoothing his tunic, his green eyes sharpening with the instinct of a born merchant.

  Ilyari and Tazien paused in their work — she folding newly cleaned linens, he threading fine embroidery needles — as the heavy oak door swung wide.

  A woman entered first, tall and graceful, wrapped in a deep crimson traveling cloak embroidered with a crest of crossed swords and laurels. Her hair was an intricate tower of golden braids, her jewels subtle but expensive enough to ransom a minor lord.

  Beside her walked a girl of about fourteen, dressed plainly by noble standards but still wearing better cloth than anything Ilyari had ever owned.

  The mother swept a quick, disdainful glance around the shop — her nose wrinkling slightly at the sight of Ilyari and Tazien.

  "Master Veylan," she said, voice pitched to carry, "I see you’ve acquired new slaves to assist your declining business."

  Ilyari froze where she stood, fingers tightening involuntarily around the folded linen.

  Tazien shifted, his whole body bristling, but Master Veylan didn’t miss a beat.

  He bowed — deep and smooth — but his smile was sharp as glass.

  "Ah, Lady Veridessa, it is a pleasure to serve House Veymarr," he said lightly. "Hardly slaves. Merely hired hands — somewhat competent, and well worth their modest wages."

  Lady Veridessa sniffed, unconvinced.

  "I expect you have time, then, to measure my daughter properly for the Academy Acceptance Ceremony."

  "Of course, my lady," Veylan said smoothly, his voice layered with subtle, needling politeness. "And perhaps the honor of a quick lesson for my apprentice?"

  He beckoned to Ilyari without looking at her.

  Ilyari set the linen aside, straightened her apron, and crossed the room with careful, deliberate steps.

  Veylan handed her a measuring line and murmured low enough only she could hear:

  "Keep your face still. Your pride lives behind your eyes, not your mouth."

  Ilyari nodded.

  The noble girl, smug and gleaming like a polished dagger, stood stiffly on the measurement platform.

  "Hands up," Ilyari said quietly, and began taking her sleeve length.

  Then she kneeled to get the girl's hemline.

  As she worked her way around to measure, the girl shifted. On purpose.

  Her heeled boot came down — hard — directly onto the back of Ilyari’s hand.

  Pain lanced through Ilyari's fingers, hot and sharp.

  Tazien made a noise low in his throat — but Ilyari didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t cry out. She simply lifted her chin and locked eyes with the girl. Fierce. Unyielding.

  The noble girl faltered under the weight of Ilyari's stare and quickly stepped off, her cheeks reddening.

  "M-mother!" she whined dramatically. "The creature is glaring at me! It's being ferocious!"

  Lady Veridessa turned a sharp gaze onto Ilyari, mouth already twisting into an insult. Ilyari slowly looked downward and bowed away to write down the measurements.

  But Veylan spoke first, his voice laced with velvet steel.

  "It would be more accurate to say," he said smoothly, "that when one has one's hand deliberately stepped on, it is difficult not to show a flicker of discomfort... especially when trained not to offend nobility."

  He gave a slight bow toward the girl, just enough to make it seem like a neutral observation.

  Lady Veridessa's mouth tightened. "An... unfortunate accident, surely," she said briskly.

  "Of course," Veylan said mildly.

  The girl nodded too quickly, eager to escape the growing tension.

  Ilyari finished writing the measurements in silence, careful and professional.

  Veylan handed over the invoice for the gown and cape without another word, and Lady Veridessa swept from the shop with her daughter trailing behind — their dignity frayed thinner than the hem of an old banner.

  The moment the door shut, Veylan let out a short, approving grunt.

  "Well done," he said to Ilyari. "You didn’t give her what she wanted."

  Tazien tossed a wadded cloth at the closed door. "Wanted to knock her off her pedestal."

  "Which is why you’re still in the back stitching capes," Veylan said dryly. "Control, boy. It wins wars faster than fists."

  For the rest of the day, a slow trickle of nobility came through the doors — lesser lords, ambitious knights, merchant families desperate to rub shoulders with true blood.

  And Ilyari learned.

  She learned to listen.

  To watch.

  To hear the whispered gossip traded between fittings:

  — Who was allying with whom at the Academy. — Which noble houses had recently fallen from favor. — Whose sons had failed the entrance trials, and whose daughters were scheming for strategic marriages. — Rumors of unrest in the borderlands, of blood and banners rising again.

  She folded cloth, polished the displays, adjusted hems — and with every scrap of overheard conversation, she stitched herself a new kind of armor.

  Knowledge.

  Because in the courts of power, sometimes knowing where the dagger was aimed was better than wearing a shield.

  And neither she nor Tazien intended to walk blindly into the wolves' den.

  Not anymore.

  As the sun dipped lower, Veylan called them both to the front counter.

  He studied their work — every stitch, every hem, every knot.

  Then, after an agonizing pause, he snapped his fingers once.

  "You’ll do."

  Ilyari and Tazien exchanged a glance of stunned relief.

  Veylan reached under the counter and withdrew two bolts of cloth — one of shimmering deep blue, the other a subtle burnished silver.

  "I’ve chosen your materials," he said simply. "But you will earn the design. Over the next month, you will master not only stitches — but presentation, balance, and poise."

  He smiled thinly.

  "You will walk into that ceremony not as commoners begging to be accepted... but as nobles the court cannot ignore."

  Tazien beamed. Ilyari tucked the memory of that moment deep into her heart — a small, fierce ember against the long, cold road still ahead.

  And neither of them noticed, not yet, the faint glimmer of old glyphs worked into the very heart of the fabrics Veylan had chosen.