The needle pricked her finger for the third time that night.
"Honestly," Amina cried, sticking her finger in her mouth. A tiny bead of blood bloomed on her skin like a rosebud, quick and unwanted. "You'd think after ten years of sewing, I'd be better at this."
The gown shimmered under the golden candlelight, midnight blue with threads that shimmered like starlight. It was beautiful — maybe her best yet. But something about it made her stomach twist. The fabric felt too cold. The air around it, too still. And each time she worked on it, she felt… watched.
She shook her head. You're tired, that's all.
Still, she eyed the dress warily. It hung on the mannequin like it was waiting — no, like it was listening. She didn't remember picking this fabric. Or accepting the order, really. The coin had just appeared in her ledger, the note attached in handwriting she didn't recognize:
"A gown for the Lady of the Eclipse. Midnight silk. Deliver before the first crescent moon."
Cryptic. And creepy.
Amina tugged a loose thread, only for it to vanish into the fabric like it had never existed. She froze. That… wasn't normal.
She stepped back slowly.
Then the door slammed open.
A gust of wind snuffed out half her candles, and a tall figure stood in the doorway, his black cloak swirling like smoke.
"You need to stop," he said, voice deep and sharp.
Amina grabbed her scissors and pointed them at him.
"Excuse me?" she snapped. "Who are you and why are you crashing into my studio like a drama king?"
The man blinked. "You stitched it, didn't you? The cursed thread. It's already binding."
She narrowed her eyes. "You're crazy."
"I'm a mage."
"Same thing."
He stepped forward. Now that he was closer, she saw the way his eyes glowed faintly — like embers under ash. His jaw was clenched, like he hated being here.
"I'm serious. That gown — it's not just cursed. It's alive."
Amina looked at the dress again. The way it sat on the mannequin… the way its hem just moved, ever so slightly…
"Okay," she whispered. "Maybe I believe you