[Sara POV] Year 2, Day 356 (Month after stampede in Borderwatch)

  Central appeared on horizon. Biggest city Sara ever seen.

  [So many buildings. So many people. So big. So impressive.]

  But Sara too busy thinking about dress to really care. Too excited. Too nervous. Too wanting.

  The air traffic was horrible. Dozens of airships. Hundreds of flying creatures. Mages on brooms. Adventurers with flight artifacts. All crowding the sky like angry bees.

  [Too much. Too busy. Sara doesn't like this. Need to find seamstress mansion fast. Get away from crowds.]

  Sara had the address. Had studied maps. Knew exactly where to go.

  Wealthy district. Big estate. Sara barely noticed. Too focused on dress.

  And the forcefield was down. Perfectly timed for Sara's arrival.

  [They expecting Sara. Good. Professional.]

  Sara descended. Fast. Straight down into the courtyard.

  One maid waited in the courtyard. Young. Professional uniform. Hands folded. Perfect posture.

  Sara landed hard.

  The courtyard stones cracked under her talons.

  [Already wrecking things. Stupid body.]

  The maid's face did something funny. Eyes went wide. Mouth opened. Body went rigid.

  That face. Sara had seen it thousands of times. The face people made when they lost control of bladder. When terror overrode everything.

  But Sara couldn't smell anything. Couldn't see any wetness. No puddle forming.

  [Strange. She definitely pissed herself. Sara knows that face. But where is it?]

  The maid recovered fast. Professional training kicking in. "W-Welcome, honored guest. Please—please follow me. The mistress is expecting you."

  She turned. Started walking. Stiff. Uncomfortable.

  Sara followed. Trying not to wreck the nice stone path. Stepping carefully. Her talons still leaving gouges despite her care.

  They entered building. Some kind of large atelier. Workshop. Fabric everywhere. Tools. Measuring devices. Magical equipment.

  And people.

  The seamstress stood in the center. That woman Sara had researched—sharp eyes, focused intensity, hands always moving.

  Five more maids around the room. Perfect uniforms. Professional masks barely hiding the terror underneath.

  One of them had that same funny face. The pissing-herself face. But again—no smell. No visible wetness.

  Sara couldn't help herself. First thing out of her beak:

  "Those two just pissed themselves. Sara can see it. Why can't Sara smell or see any effects of it?"

  Dead silence.

  Everyone staring.

  The seamstress blinked. Once. Twice. Then—surprisingly—smiled slightly.

  "Direct. I appreciate that." She gestured at the maids. "Their uniforms handle waste management. High-level enchantments. Sometimes servants have... unreasonable masters. Accidents happen." Pause. "I've had problematic customers. The enchantments handle it. Cleanly."

  [Oh. Smart. Practical. Good enchantment.]

  Sara stood there. Then realized something.

  [That was probably not proper first thing to ask. Normal people don't open with pissing questions. Sara did social wrong again. Damn.]

  She decided not to ask more questions. Just wait. Let seamstress lead.

  The seamstress used the silence to study Sara more carefully. Eyes tracking over Sara's body. Her wings. Her talons.

  Then stopping on the clothing.

  The rag Sara wore. Had worn for five centuries. Never taken off once since leaving harpy colony.

  "That..." The seamstress stepped closer. "What is that?"

  "Clothing," Sara said. "Had it since Sara left harpy colony. Five hundred years ago. Never took off once."

  "Five hundred..." The seamstress reached out. Touched the fabric carefully. Her expression shifted—recognition, shock, understanding.

  "This is natively evolved. Organically developed." She pulled her hand back. Stared. "This is legendary-tier. High legendary. Extreme blood affinity. How—how did this happen?"

  Sara shrugged. "Sara thinks it's just rag. Total rag. Fitting for monster like Sara. But was gift from harpy queen when Sara left colony. So Sara kept it. Precious gift. Only thing Sara has from home."

  The seamstress circled slowly. Examining from all angles. "This isn't just a rag anymore. It's evolved over centuries. Your power. The blood. The constant wearing. The emotional attachment." Pause. "It's become something extraordinary."

  She stopped in front of Sara. Direct. "I need you to remove this. Now. I must examine it properly."

  Sara hesitated. "Never taken it off. Not once in five hundred years."

  "I understand. But I need to see it. To understand what we're working with."

  Sara nodded. Seamstress was right. Need to see foundation to make new belonging.

  Sara reached for the fabric. Pulled.

  It didn't move. Rag was heavy. Five centuries of blood and memories. Felt like part of Sara's own body.

  [Oh. Rag doesn't want to come off.]

  Sara pulled harder. Used real strength. The kind that once cut through legendary-grade shield. Fabric started fighting back. Actually fighting. Sparking. Resisting. Magic flaring.

  [Rag is being selfish. Rag doesn't want Sara to have new dress. Very rude.]

  Sara could feel it—tiny roots. The rag had grown into Sara's skin over centuries. Deep. Like weeds in garden. Holding tight.

  [Need to clear weeds. Make space for new dress.]

  Sara gripped with talons and ripped.

  Sound was wet. Loud. To the watching maids, looked like Sara was skinning herself alive. Rag came away in chunks. Taking skin with it. Taking muscle. Leaving fresh red paint everywhere.

  Sara didn't scream. Didn't flinch. Just kept pulling. Methodical. Professional.

  Finally—last piece fell to floor with heavy, wet sound.

  Sara stood there. Body covered in fresh wounds. Raw. Bleeding. Red paint everywhere. But Sara just looked at the old rag on table.

  [Rag is finally off. Sara is empty canvas now. Ready for new dress. Ready to belong. Happy-happy.]

  The seamstress stared. Face white. Maids had stopped breathing.

  "It is off," Sara said. Voice calm. Happy. "Seamstress can look now. Please make new one very pretty."

  The seamstress ignored the nudity, the wounds. Just focused on the rag. Took it carefully. Examined it in the light.

  Then did something strange.

  Pulled out a knife. Cut her own finger. Let one drop fall onto the fabric.

  The blood vanished. Instantly. Like the fabric drank it.

  "Oh." The seamstress breathed out. "It's actively feeding. Not just affinity—active consumption."

  She looked at Sara. Serious. "This piece is maybe fifty to hundred years from becoming cursed equipment. Permanently bound. If you wore it that long, it would never come off. Ever. You'd die with it on. Become part of it, eventually."

  [Huh. That would explain why all the blood Sara got during jobs just disappeared. Sara always thought it was convenient. Turns out rag was eating it. Interesting.]

  The seamstress set the rag down carefully on nearby table. "Now. What kind of dress do you want? Tell me everything."

  Sara had been thinking about this for entire flight here. Had made mental list. Organized it. Professional preparation.

  "Sara wants dress same as your servants have. So Sara never needs to take dump again. Or pee. Handle everything with enchantments."

  The seamstress blinked. "That's... unusual first request."

  "Sara wants dress that makes Sara feel like sleeping in sea of pillows. Even when sleeping on hard rock."

  "Comfort enchantments. Reasonable."

  "Sara wants dress that looks similar to ones in sketches provided." Sara pulled out parchment. The careful drawings she'd made. The black and white maid uniforms.

  The seamstress took the sketches. Studied them. "I know these. I made the originals. I can match the style."

  "Sara wants dress that makes Sara look like servant. Proper servant. Not monster."

  "Understood."

  "Sara wants dress that makes Sara not ugly. Beautiful if possible. Even though Sara knows Sara is monster."

  The seamstress's expression softened slightly. "We can work with that."

  "Sara wants dress that makes Sara not wreck floors she walks on." Sara gestured at courtyard outside. At the gouges her talons had left. "Sara notices she already wrecked your nice atelier floor too."

  Everyone looked down. At the deep scratches in the expensive wooden flooring.

  [Damn. Sara ruins everything.]

  The seamstress went quiet. Long moment. Thinking. Processing.

  Finally: "That's... quite a combination. Some straightforward. Some challenging. And some might not be possible through clothing alone."

  She focused on Sara directly. "First—the waste management enchantments. Are you certain you want this? It's something only servants wear. It's seen as very improper in society. People would know immediately what kind of enchantment you have."

  Sara answered without hesitation.

  "Sara never uses panties. Too tiresome to take away when Sara needs to go pee. Also when Sara is high in sky—Sara sometimes stays up there for days—Sara needs to land times to times just to pee. Sara has small bladder. And Sara is NOT some uncivilized bird who just bombs from sky."

  The seamstress stared at Sara. Processing this explanation.

  One of the maids made strangled sound. Trying not to laugh. Or cry. Hard to tell.

  "That's..." The seamstress struggled for words. "That's actually reasonable logic. Given your circumstances. Yes. We can add those enchantments. They're rare and require specific modifications to the design, but if you truly want them—"

  "Sara really wants them."

  "Understood. They'll be included."

  She moved to next item. "The sleeping enchantment. You mentioned sleeping on hard rock. What exactly do you sleep on now?"

  "Mound of gold. Diamonds. Platinum. Other valuables. Had them for centuries. Only things that don't break when Sara sleeps on them."

  Dead silence.

  One of the maids lost herself completely. That face again. Eyes rolling slightly. Body swaying.

  [She definitely just pissed herself again. Maybe passed out little bit too. Sara should stop being so honest.]

  The seamstress looked at her maids. "Get her some water. She'll recover."

  Then back to Sara. "Like... like dragons in stories? Sleeping on hoards?"

  Sara thought about this. "Yes. Sara supposes that's fair comparison. Never thought of it that way. But yes. Like dragon."

  "I've made sleeping-comfort enchantments for adventurers before. For camping. Never for maid dress. But—" she smiled slightly "—first time for everything. We can incorporate it."

  She moved to the talon problem. "The floor wrecking. That's not something dresses can really fix. Those are your talons. Your natural weapons. Covering them would be impossible—they're too sharp. But..."

  She looked at her maids. "Ideas? Creative solutions?"

  The maid who'd recovered from her first panic spoke carefully. "Perhaps... toe-walking? Like some slaves do? Keeps the sharp parts elevated?"

  Another maid: "The talons are very sharp. Covering's probably impossible. But maybe—maybe we can pull them back? Up and back? Ropes or cables integrated into footwear? Keep them from digging in?"

  The seamstress considered. Then gave a thumbs up. Literal gesture. "Good ideas. Both workable. We can combine them—toe-walking plus integrated tension system in special footwear. Won't eliminate it, but should reduce damage significantly."

  Sara felt something twist in her chest.

  [Those are useful ideas. Super useful. Sara wants to thank them. Sara wants to be useful back. Get approval. Get recognized as helpful. But they're scared of Sara. Won't want Sara's help. Never do.]

  The bitterness rose. Familiar. Painful.

  But Sara pushed it down. Professional discipline. "Those sound good. Sara will use them."

  The seamstress nodded. "We'll experiment. Test different approaches. Find what works."

  Then she went quiet. Walked to her table. Started sketching. Drawing. Constantly looking back at the old rag Sara had worn. At the legendary-tier fabric just sitting there.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Minutes passed. The seamstress muttering to herself.

  "So wasteful not to use it... but it's almost cursed... nothing I can really do against it safely... anything I do might make it worse, push it over the edge... but it would be so efficient to build on it... if I use this as foundation, it actually might challenge Null's original quality... maybe even match it..."

  Sara watched her struggle. Saw the conflict. The professional wanting to use best materials. The caution knowing the risks.

  Finally Sara asked: "What is issue? Sara doesn't understand."

  The seamstress looked up. Set down her charcoal. "Two options. I can make you entirely new dress from scratch. Safe. Clean. No complications. Good quality. Everything you requested."

  She gestured at the rag. "Or I can use that as foundation. Build on it. Integrate it into the new design. But—and this is critical—that would make it cursed. It's too close already. Adding more enchantments, more power, more bonding? It'll push over. You'd never take it off. Ever. Rest of your life."

  Pause. "And there's another factor. Legendary items this close to cursed status—especially ones with this much history, this much emotional attachment—there's a high chance the dress gains consciousness. Becomes aware. Sentient."

  Sara's attention focused completely. "Consciousness? Like... Sara could talk with dress? Have friend?"

  The seamstress looked surprised by the question. But answered: "In theory... yes. But this would require something else. Something missing. Something that can be found where nobody is looking. I can't explain it better than that. You'd know it when you found it."

  Sara's wings spread slightly. Excitement. Genuine joy.

  [Yes. YES. Sara will get dress of belonging that can't be removed. AND Sara will get friend who talks with her. AND Sara is good at searching things. Sara knows places nobody looks. Sara can find it. Whatever it is.]

  "Sara wants that one. The cursed one. The one that becomes conscious. Sara totally in."

  The seamstress studied Sara carefully. "You understand what you're agreeing to? Permanently bound equipment. No removal. Ever."

  "Sara understands. Sara wants it. Sara will find the missing thing to make dress talk. Sara promises."

  "Your name..." The seamstress said slowly. "Your nickname. 'Painting Lunatic.' That seems very fitting right now."

  Sara nodded happily. "Sara really likes to paint."

  The seamstress smiled. Slight. Professional. "I meant the other half of that nickname. The 'lunatic' part. But you won't listen to reason anyway, will you?"

  "Sara wants dress. Sara wants friend. Sara will do it."

  "Alright then." The seamstress pulled out different dress from her storage. Simple design. Plain enchantments. Basic waste-management included. "Wear this for next few weeks while I work. Test the enchantments. See how you feel about actually having to... use them. If you change your mind about any requirements, tell me immediately."

  She handed the dress and matching undergarments to Sara. "And don't worry about wrecking this one. It's test piece. Durable enough but not precious."

  Sara put them on.

  Immediately wrecked the dress slightly. Her wings tearing small holes. Her talons catching fabric. Her strength just existing causing stress on seams.

  [Of course Sara wrecks it. Sara wrecks everything.]

  The seamstress watched. Taking mental notes. "I see. We'll need significant reinforcement. Multiple backup enchantments. Redundant systems. Noted."

  Then she addressed the main concern: "You'll need to stay here for few weeks until dress is done. I'll need you present for fittings, adjustments, tests. Also—" she gestured at the old rag "—that thing would probably start killing everyone if you go too far away. It's bonded to you completely. Separation over distance would make it... aggressive."

  Sara understood immediately. The rag would protect her. Even by killing. "Sara happy to stay. But Sara has request."

  "Yes?"

  "Can Sara get cookies and milk? As food? While staying here?"

  Every person in the room stared at Sara.

  The seamstress's expression was complex. Confusion. Disbelief. Something like pity. "You... want cookies and milk. That's your food request. Nothing else."

  "Yes. Sara likes cookies and milk."

  "We can... we can arrange that. Certainly."

  The seamstress looked at Sara like Sara was completely insane. Which was probably fair assessment.

  [Time Skip: One Week]

  The week had been... interesting.

  Sara sat in the atelier. The same workshop room. Couldn't leave. The rag sat on table across room—if Sara went too far, it would go berserk. Attack. Kill. Protect its owner.

  So Sara stayed. Eating cookies. Drinking milk. Reading through Republic legal codes she'd bought from Assassin Guild.

  [These laws are fascinating. So many loopholes. So many clever tricks. That Guild Master Torvan really was professional.]

  Trapped in one room. For entire week. Would be trapped for weeks more.

  And everyone else had to come HERE. To Sara's room. To work. To deliver food. To teach. To measure. No escape from apex predator's presence.

  One maid had taught Sara basics of toe-walking. Patient instruction despite obvious fear. Had to stay in room with Sara for hours. Demonstrating. Correcting. The technique was painful—forcing Sara to walk on tips of talons, keeping the sharp parts elevated.

  Sara didn't care about pain. Pain was nothing. Sara had endured centuries of pain. What mattered was: would it work? Would it reduce floor damage?

  They'd also rigged temporary rope system. Pulling Sara's talons back and up slightly. Connected to special harness. Uncomfortable. Restrictive. But functional.

  Sara practiced daily. Walking around the workshop. Moving. Testing. Building muscle memory. Never leaving. Never able to leave.

  The pain was constant. The restriction annoying.

  But Sara endured it all without complaint.

  [If this makes Sara acceptable. If this lets Sara serve without wrecking everything. Pain is irrelevant.]

  The cookies and milk came several times per day. Different maids forced to enter. To deliver food. To stay in Sara's presence. All looking progressively more exhausted. More worn. More strained.

  The seamstress herself worked in the room. Had to. The rag was here. Sara was here. No choice but to share space with nightmare.

  She asked questions. Took measurements. Made adjustments to designs. Professional. Efficient. But visibly tired. Worn down.

  Sara noticed: everyone here was getting wrecked.

  Not physically. Not obviously. Just... worn down. Stressed. Traumatized. Sara's presence—constant, inescapable, days and days of it with no break—was taking massive toll.

  They couldn't leave. Couldn't escape. Had to keep coming back to this room. To Sara. Over and over. Day after day.

  They drank every evening. Sara heard them through the walls. Saw the empty bottles when maids came in morning. More bottles each day.

  [They have problems. Sara caused problems. Sara trapped here. They trapped with Sara. Everyone suffering. But Sara can't leave. Rag would kill them if Sara goes too far.]

  [Sara should offer help. Kill their other problems maybe? But Sara is the problem they can't escape. Offering to kill more things probably not helpful.]

  The seamstress entered the atelier. Serious expression. Professional.

  "One final time. Are you certain you want this? The cursed dress with all the requirements we discussed? Once we start the final assembly, there's no going back. It will bond to you permanently."

  Sara didn't hesitate. "Yes. Sara wants it. Sara is certain."

  The seamstress nodded slowly. "Then we need a butcher."

  Sara blinked. "What is butcher?"

  "Someone who helps connect dress to body when making cursed equipment. Better to connect it properly from the start than let it connect itself over time and hope for the best." Pause. "Also, a good butcher can fix... issues with your body. Reshape. Improve. Essentially plastic surgery."

  Sara's wings trembled. "Fix body? Make Sara nicer?"

  "If the butcher's skilled enough, yes."

  "Then get BEST POSSIBLE. Sara has gold! Lots of gold! Will pay whatever!"

  The seamstress smiled slightly. "Actually, there's someone coming to Central soon. Said to be the best. Might be interested in the challenge. But..." Pause. "He probably wants something other than gold."

  [Favors. Always favors with powerful people.]

  "Sara can do favors. If it means nicer body. If it means dress connects properly. Sara professional. Can do whatever needed."

  The seamstress studied her. "I'll reach out. See if there's interest. This would be... unique. Challenging work. He might find it appealing."

  "Please do. Sara wants best. Sara will pay however he wants."

  The seamstress nodded. "I'll send a message today. We'll see if he responds."

  [One Week Later]

  More week passed. Sara happy-happy despite being trapped. Everyone else seemed even less happy. More drinking. More exhaustion. More bottles.

  Even Sara noticed it clearly now. [They really have problems. Sara definitely the problem. But also can't leave. Stuck situation.]

  Then the seamstress entered the atelier with purpose.

  And someone followed her.

  Elf. Male. But wrong. So wrong.

  Sara's every instinct screamed danger. Real danger. Genuine threat.

  He looked like corpse. Preserved corpse. Ancient. Powerful. Something fundamentally wrong with his existence.

  Sara knew immediately: this was elf she might actually die to.

  [Oh no. Oh no no no. Careful. Total submission. Now. Don't fuck this up.]

  Sara dropped to ground. Kneeling. Full prostration. Face to floor. Wings spread flat in complete submission.

  This was real elf master. The kind from old stories. The kind who could kill Sara. Would kill Sara if Sara showed even slight disrespect.

  The elf's voice was dry. Dead. But carried absolute authority.

  "I still don't understand what possessed my disciples. Even they couldn't explain their own actions." He paused, slight irritation showing. "Had to hunt down everyone who escaped. Delivered their heads to the Syndicate as apology—and even that wasn't enough. So many concessions to repair the damage." A dry laugh. "I need to be far more selective about who I train. At least we can visit Central again, though only in secret. Another century before the branch can openly operate, I expect."

  Sara understood nothing of this. But stayed perfectly still. Listening. Learning.

  The seamstress looked at Sara—kneeling, prostrated, wings flat—with slightly strange expression. Then turned back to the conversation.

  She turned to Sara, tone shifting to formal. "Archmage Aelorin. Leader of the Blood Guild. The Mage of Death. The Mage of Blood. The finest butcher alive, without question. They say he can transform the ugliest duckling into a swan with nothing but his blade."

  The elf—Aelorin—responded with dry amusement. "You always did have a gift for flattery. Though you're not wrong about the challenge. Those wealthy clients—centuries of neglect, then they expect miracles from my knife. I imagine you know the feeling. Trying to hide decades of poor decisions beneath fine clothing."

  The seamstress laughed. "Know it well. Hate it just as much."

  Sara stayed down. Kneeling. Waiting.

  The elf circled her. Slowly. Studying her like piece of meat to be cut.

  "Well. At least this one maintained herself properly. That muscle density—nothing standard would penetrate it. I'll need specialized techniques or this would take months of conventional work."

  Sara spoke. Carefully. Using proper third-person address. Submissive language. Everything she'd learned from centuries of stalking elven lords.

  "This lonely one thanks you for wasting your time for this useless one. This unworthy creature is grateful for consideration from one so far above her station."

  The elf's approval was immediate. "Ah. So this one actually knows proper protocol. That will make everything considerably easier."

  He walked to the dress the seamstress had prepared. The pieces of Sara's old rag—transformed, restructured, beautiful now. Ready to be assembled on Sara's body.

  Studied it. Touched the fabric. Professional assessment.

  "Interesting work. The assembly itself is straightforward—five, perhaps six hours to integrate the dress and make corrections to the body." He glanced at Sara, still prostrated. "As for payment, I think a favor from this particular beast would be considerably more interesting than gold."

  Sara's mind raced.

  [No no no. Can't give favor. Void had issues with Blood Guild in past. If Sara owes favor to their supreme leader—if he can call it in—causes so many problems later. For Sara. For master Sara wants to serve. Sara can't risk that. Won't risk it.]

  Sara spoke carefully. Still prostrated. "This lonely one will not want to give favor. Perhaps gold or some other pre-agreed payment would be acceptable?"

  Silence. Surprised silence.

  The elf and seamstress both staring. Nobody expected Sara to refuse.

  Finally Aelorin asked: "Why?"

  Sara chose words very carefully. "The one this lonely one wishes to serve has had dealings with your honorable guild in the past. This lonely one fears such a favor could create complications. For this one. For the master this one wishes to serve."

  The elf started laughing. Genuine amusement. "Ah, I'd nearly forgotten those rumors about you. The stalking. Years of observation, building up delusional ideas." Pause, dark amusement. "And every single one met with unfortunate accidents. Eventually. How curious."

  Sara felt tears threatening. Voice breaking slightly. "Sara did nothing wrong! They betrayed Sara. Promised things then laughed. Sara just wanted fairness. Just wanted to belong."

  [Don't cry. Don't show weakness. Don't—]

  The elf considered her. Then made different offer:

  "A bet, perhaps. I'll do far better work than originally discussed. Transform you into something truly beautiful—as close as your nature allows." He paused. "But if you break during the process—if the pain shatters your mind—I keep the body. It would make an excellent frame for a powerful flesh slave."

  He paused. "However, if you survive with your mind intact—or well, not much worse than it already is, you lunatic—I take no payment. Except this: if we ever find ourselves on opposite sides of a conflict, we speak first. Try to resolve things before resorting to blood."

  Sara's wings trembled.

  [Free beauty surgery. Free everything. Just endure pain. Sara not afraid of pain. Had centuries of pain already. If Sara loses self—Sara not worth belonging anyway. Not worth dress. Not worth anything. But if Sara survives—gets body. Gets dress. Gets belonging. Gets everything Sara ever wanted.]

  "Sara agrees."

  The seamstress tried to interrupt. "This is madness. You don't understand the pain levels he uses—"

  "Sara agrees."

  "He'll destroy you. Shatter your mind completely. You'll be lobotomized—"

  "Sara agrees. Sara knows elven masters. True elven masters keep word even when hate themselves for it. This one is true elven master. Will make terrible pain, yes. But Sara not afraid of pain. If Sara loses self—not worth belonging anyway."

  The seamstress looked between them. Sara's absolute determination. Aelorin's cold professional interest. She gave up trying.

  After more discussion—technical details about dress assembly, integration points, body modifications needed—they prepared.

  Sara was placed in adamantium frame. Strong metal. Legendary-tier craftsmanship. Built to restrain dangerous creatures during procedures.

  Aelorin pulled out his collection of knives. Tool kit. Surgical equipment. Each piece precise. Perfect. Terrifying.

  Like torturer's toolkit.

  His last words before beginning: "Since we have this bet for free work, there will be no pain reduction today. No anti-pain spells or artifacts. If anything, the opposite may be applied when appropriate." He met her eyes. "But I am a man of my word. No cut I make will be wasted. Every single one makes you more beautiful."

  Sara spoke carefully. Grateful. "This lonely one thanks you for your consideration. This unworthy creature is grateful for your skill and time."

  [Time Skip: Several Days?]

  Sara floated in warm feeling.

  Not pain—Sara knew pain, had pain for centuries, pain was just... thing that happened. Like rain. Like wind. Just background.

  The sounds were nice. Metal tools working. Rhythmic. Professional. Like watching craftsman build furniture. Except craftsman was building Sara.

  [Sara is finally getting fixed. Every cut makes Sara nicer. Every stitch brings dress closer. No more wrecking floors. No more gouges in nice wood. Sara will walk properly. Toe-walking plus special shoes. Sara will be servant who doesn't destroy everything. Finally. Soon Sara will be pretty. Soon Sara will belong. Happy-happy soon.]

  The dress was connecting. Sara could feel it. Not just wearing—becoming part of Sara. Magic threads going deep. Strange wires Sara never seen before weaving through. Connecting everything.

  And the dress was... drinking? Yes. Drinking. Sara could feel it. Every time butcher cut, fresh blood came out. Dress absorbed it. Eating. Growing stronger.

  [Good. Dress needs to eat. Make dress strong. Strong dress means can't ever take off. Perfect. Sara feeding friend. Friend getting full. Happy-happy.]

  [Dress learning Sara's shape. Sara learning dress's feeling. Soon we talk together. Soon Sara has friend who never runs away. Friend who can't run away. Perfect.]

  Through the haze, Sara noticed: butcher was getting frustrated.

  Aelorin kept cutting deeper. Harder. Testing. Pushing. Trying to make Sara break. Sara recognized this—he wanted to win bet. Wanted Sara to scream. Cry. Lose mind.

  [He expects Sara to break. Everyone expects monsters to break. But Sara not normal monster. Sara is Painting Lunatic. Pain is just... paint Sara doesn't need right now.]

  Sara stayed happy. Stayed focused on dress. On belonging. On finally—FINALLY—getting what Sara wanted.

  [Pain temporary. Dress forever. Belonging everything. Endure cutting, get cookies. Get milk. Get home. Simple trade. Good trade. Sara can endure anything for cookies and belonging. Sara will be best maid. Will serve master. Will get cookies and milk. Will have home. Just need to endure little longer.]

  Time passed. Sara didn't know how much. Didn't care. Only thing that mattered: was dress ready yet?

  Finally—butcher's voice. Hollow. Defeated.

  "There's nothing more I can do. Nothing left to improve. You're as beautiful as a beast like you can possibly be." Pause. "We're done."

  The words hit Sara like lightning.

  Done.

  DONE.

  DRESS IS READY. SARA IS READY. TIME TO GO.

  Sara didn't wait. Didn't ask permission. Just expanded wings and pulled.

  The adamantium frame—legendary-tier restraints meant to hold dangerous creatures—tore like wet paper. Shattered. Broke. Pieces flying everywhere.

  [Frame never meant to hold Sara anyway. Sara much stronger than normal dangerous creature. Sara is VERY dangerous creature.]

  She stood. Bowed deeply to Aelorin. To seamstress. Perfect courtesy despite the pain.

  Then pulled bag of gold from her item box. Just-in-case bag. Extra tip. Thank you gift.

  Dropped it at Aelorin's feet.

  [Sara always knows how to show gratitude. Always.]

  She turned to the seamstress. "Sara wants to help. Be useful. Show gratitude properly. What can Sara do?"

  The seamstress considered. "Come back once every hundred years. Let me see the dress. How it's evolved. That would be... extremely valuable research."

  She paused. "Just once per century. No more. Please."

  Sara understood. [Being near Sara traumatizes people. They need long breaks to recover. Sara understands this.]

  "Sara promises. Once per century. Will come. Will show dress. Thank you for everything."

  Then Sara spread her wings and flew off.

  Happy-happy.

  Happier than she'd been in centuries.

  [Archmage Aelorin POV]

  Aelorin stood outside the seamstress's mansion. Watching the harpy disappear into the distance. Flying with joy obvious in every wing beat.

  The seamstress stood beside him. Her maids positioned nearby. All recovering from weeks of exposure to apex predator's presence.

  "I'm impressed," the seamstress said. "You lost the bet. I never thought I'd see that."

  Aelorin was in bad mood. He didn't like losing. Ever. "I should have known better than making that kind of bet with someone who has 'lunatic' in their nickname."

  But he couldn't deny the professional pride. "Though I must acknowledge—this work came out quite well. She's transformed. Actually beautiful now. If she learns how to behave properly, she might even fit into society."

  The seamstress smiled. "I think that's one issue that may mess up her plans. Whatever crazy ideas she has."

  Aelorin paused. Remembered something. "You lied to her."

  One of the seamstress's maids looked up. Curious. "What lie?"

  Aelorin turned to lecture mode. Natural for him. "Making sentient items of any kind is nearly impossible. True sentience—genuine consciousness—that requires divine intervention or conditions so rare they might as well be impossible. The dress has high affinity for evolution, yes. But this 'needing things hidden where nobody looking' nonsense? That's children's story. There's only one thing known that could actually make that dress sentient."

  The maid asked: "What?"

  The seamstress answered. Her voice quiet. Off. "Chain of Damned Blood. Divine artifact that crazy divine child who became daemon lord created some twenty thousand years ago. One of his own kind was needed to slay this evil being. And even then, this 'Chain of Damned Blood' was too powerful to destroy."

  She continued: "The one who slew the daemon lord tried to destroy the artifact. But was killed by the backlash. After that, many more attempts were made—different methods, different powers, different approaches. None succeeded. Story says it was stored in some vault in Paradise, to never be seen again. Now it's probably somewhere in the Endless Sea of Sand. Many have looked for it over the millennia. None have gotten any smarter for their efforts."

  The maid looked uncertain. "So... she'll never actually make the dress sentient? You lied?"

  The seamstress didn't answer. Just looked at where Sara had disappeared.

  Aelorin studied her expression. Professional curiosity. "You think she might actually find it. Don't you?"

  "She's the Painting Lunatic," the seamstress said quietly. "She holds grudges for centuries. She stalks elf masters until they die. She created heroic deeds by killing actual heroes. She just survived surgery that should have destroyed her mind, stayed happy through pain that would break archmages."

  She paused. "If anyone could accidentally stumble into ancient divine artifact hidden in impossible location? It would be that lunatic harpy who desperately wants a dress to talk back to her."

  Aelorin considered this. "You may be right."

  They stood in silence. Watching the empty sky.

  "Strong drinks," the seamstress said finally. "We've earned them."

  They returned inside. All of them exhausted. Traumatized.

  But also: witnesses to something impossible.

  A monster who flew away happy, believing she would find what she needed. That she would finally belong.

  And nobody could quite believe it was impossible.

  Because Sara the Painting Lunatic didn't follow normal rules.

  Sara got her dress. Whether she'll find the Chain of Damned Blood? That's story for another time. But knowing Sara—it's probably not as impossible as it should be.

  Good luck, Sara. You'll need it.