They descended on the Glint Atelier under the cover of fog.
Officially, the night's showcase was a celebration of "Post-Mechanical Decadence" — a brutalist fashion trend mixing chrome bones, armor-inspired silhouettes, and industrial noise-thread. But beneath the clamor of flashing cameras and a celebrity-studded front row, one dress eclipsed everything:
The Eidolon Dress.
It stood at the center of the black-marble catwalk like an idol: unmodeled, unworn, humming faintly with sentient energy. Sewn from ghost-thread harvested from broken oaths and dreams deferred, it was said to warp the will of anyone who approached with greed.
Sloane watched from above, crouched on the iron balcony in a reflective bodysuit threaded with anti-surveillance shimmer.
"Dress is on lockdown," Ari whispered through the comms. "Three guards, biometric key sewn into the Glint heir's gloves, and layered illusion security."
"Got it," Sloane replied. "Dax?"
"In place," he said, crackling from beneath the catwalk. "Ready to cut the floor if needed."
"And Cassien?"
A pause.
"He's with her."
---
Cassien stood beside Venna Glint.
Her beauty was ruthless — not pretty, not soft. Sculpted. Perfectly uncomfortable to look at for too long. Her outfit was a statement: razor-thread gloves, a crown of interlocking chainlink corset rings, and boots threaded with actual barbed wire.
"You brought her back," Venna purred. "Your pet designer."
"She's more than that."
Venna cocked her head. "So it's true? She passed the Loom?"
Cassien didn't answer.
Venna leaned close. "Do you know what she's carrying in her blood, Cassien? Do you know what the Empire will do when it finds out?"
He looked her straight in the eye. "They'll have to rewrite history."
Venna smiled — but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Well. I hope she survives the rewrite."
---
Back above the catwalk, Sloane and Ari synced their watches.
"Two minutes to lockdown window," Ari said. "Cassien better pull the glove key."
Sloane bit her lip. She trusted him. But Venna Glint had a way of digging into your insecurities and making you question your loyalties.
As if on cue, the spotlight dimmed. A distorted voice announced, "Ladies and gentlemen... the Eidolon."
A dome of obsidian light dropped over the dress. It shimmered, then began to shift — revealing an illusion of the dress being worn by each of the Empire's legendary icons, from the rebel tailor Aluna Threadgrave to the first Chancellor of Vogue.
Sloane activated her bodysuit's descent thread.
"Showtime."
---
She landed just behind the illusion dome.
Ari activated a minor breach using static-laced spool wire.
The shimmer flickered.
Sloane slid through.
The Eidolon pulsed — not like a dress, but like a heart. Whispers danced in her ears. "Take me." "Wear me." "Remake the world in your thread."
She reached out.
The dress snapped around her like water.
Sloane gasped — every nerve ending igniting. Memories not her own surged into her skin: rejections, failures, the longing of thousands who'd never been allowed to create.
Tears fell.
Not hers.
The dress is alive.
---
Venna's scream cracked the air.
"She's inside it?!"
Cassien didn't respond. He sprinted down the spiral steps as alarms blared and guards reached for weapons.
But no one was fast enough.
Sloane emerged from the illusion dome now collapsed — wearing the Eidolon Dress.
Gasps echoed from the audience. Spectral images floated behind her with each step — failed visions, abandoned sketches, the ghosts of designs unloved.
She didn't walk the runway.
She owned it.
Venna launched herself forward, her gloves slicing the air with sonic thread-whips.
Cassien caught her midair.
"You'll never be able to control her."
Venna snarled, eyes bloodshot. "She's not supposed to exist!"
---
The floor gave way.
Dax had cut the support beam, as planned. Sloane dropped through the stage, landing in the escape chute of velvet tubing.
Ari was waiting below in a thread-bike stitched from carbon-silk.
"Go!" she shouted.
Sloane vaulted onto the seat and slammed the throttle.
Behind them, a chorus of sirens and collapsing illusions rang out — and above it all, the crowd's frenzied applause.
The world wanted her now.
The Empire just hadn't realized it yet.
---
Three hours later, they lay low in an underground atelier — walls covered in banned designs and subversive stitchwork.
Sloane stood before the mirror.
The Eidolon had quieted.
No longer alive with rage or grief, it now fit her like a second skin. Her version. The pattern had changed to reflect her scars, her choices, her power.
Cassien watched her from the doorway, arms crossed.
"You're playing with fire."
"I am fire now."
He stepped closer. "Venna won't forget this."
"Neither will the Empire."
A beat passed.
Then he asked, softly, "Are you scared?"
Sloane turned to him — eyes blazing.
"Yes. But I'm more scared of staying small."
He reached for her hand — the one with the Heirloom Spark.
She let him take it.
Their fingers stitched together.
---
Far away, in the Chancellor's Tower, the Empire's true leader watched the footage of Sloane in the Eidolon.
The woman's voice was low, cold.
"House Era has returned."
A shadowed man beside her spoke.
"And with it, the thread we buried."
She nodded.
"Dispatch the Pattern Agents. And prepare the Seamripper Protocol."
"But—"
She turned, eyes sharp.
"She's not just wearing fashion."
"She is fashion."