Kael woke up the next morning after what could only be described as a chaotic day.

  Every muscle in his body hurt, and a metallic taste clung stubbornly to his tongue.

  “Those bastards didn’t hold back,” he muttered resentfully.

  He pushed himself up, searching for whatever crumbs of dry biscuit might still be left.

  This time, his rat roommate hadn’t beaten him to it—there were a few pieces left from the night before.

  “Aaah… looks like it’s my lucky day.”

  He tied his Needle-Case band around his forehead and headed outside.

  But instead of walking toward the weavers’ workshop, he drifted south—toward the cemetery of the Broken Crown.

  It was where those who could afford a grave were buried.

  The others ended up tossed into pits covered with quicklime… or worse, eaten by stray dogs in the gutters.

  Kael wasn’t here to mourn anyone. He had no one to mourn.

  His mother—the only close person he had ever had—had abandoned him long ago.

  The cemetery stretched along the mountainside, far to the south of Soléandre.

  The city was trapped between mountain ranges; to leave it, one had to follow the Soléen upstream all the way to the great waterfall, then climb into the High Lands.

  But people of the Broken Crown weren’t allowed up there anyway.

  Kael had a peculiar habit: climbing as high as he could on the steep slopes to look at the view.

  From there, he could see all of the Broken Crown—and far beyond, the royal palace perched in the High Lands.

  The palace of Lucénine stood on a narrow cliff.

  Yet, cruel paradox: from the Broken Crown, it was invisible, always drowned in backlight. Staring at it meant blinding yourself.

  “They build their palace on the sweat and blood of the Ombrevu… and we rot in its shadow, unable to enjoy anything,” he grumbled.

  The view, despite everything, was breathtaking.

  The branches of the river sprawled through the city like living arteries.

  Far below, he could spot the weavers’ workshop.

  “I can almost hear those harpies yelling from here,” he snorted. “Alright… time to get to work.”

  He climbed down without a single fall—which, after the previous night’s misadventures, bordered on a miracle—then crossed the market, carefully avoiding the thugs’ alleyway.

  The workshop was a massive complex bristling with chimneys.

  The moment Kael stepped inside, a deafening cacophony swallowed him:

  the crack of looms, the pounding of massive bellows, the clatter of shears on steel.

  The heat was stifling, thick with the smells of sweat, heated silk, and powdered linen.

  Dozens of women worked tirelessly—sleeves rolled up, muscles taut, faces shining with fatigue but brightened by laughter and shouts.

  Some pulled levers, others folded damp silk, others guided threads through complex mechanisms.

  “GOOD MORNING, LADIES!” Kael shouted, his voice drowned in the uproar.

  “GOOD MORNING, KAEL!” they answered in unison, radiant.

  Several waved at him with playful gestures; others threw teasing comments:

  “Kael, come take my place, my arms are dead!”

  “Careful not to stain that pretty Needle-Casket of yours!”

  Kael chuckled and went straight toward a massive bellows where two workers were struggling to keep the pace.

  It funneled blazing air into a large vat to soften rolls of silk.

  “Let me handle this.”

  He grabbed the handles, dug his feet into the floor, and pushed.

  A powerful blast roared out, making whole sheets of fabric snap in the air.

  The weavers burst out laughing.

  “Look at those muscles! Hard to believe he got beaten up by three thugs last night!”

  “Four,” Kael corrected with a pained smile.

  Weavers were legendary gossips; nothing escaped them.

  Kael wasn’t surprised they already knew about his beating.

  More laughter.

  They adored him—he was the only man in the workshop, but far from being rejected, he’d become their pampered little brother, the one they loved to tease while showering him with affection.

  Some handed him spools, others tossed scraps for him to fix, testing his reflexes.

  Kael fired back—sometimes with a sharp remark, sometimes with a mischievous grin.

  Despite the harsh work and hellish noise, the workshop felt warm—like a living hive where everyone knew their role, yet still found energy to laugh.

  As he set the bellows down, a weaver approached, arms full of wet silk.

  “Kael, stop showing off. The head weaver wants you in her office. And hurry—she’s in a mood today.”

  Kael gave her a theatrical bow and headed to the back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

  Connie—the master of the place—awaited him behind a desk buried under papers.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  A sharp woman, authoritative, but one Kael treated with a mix of respect and familiarity.

  Short brown hair, simple clothes, strong build.

  “Morning, Connie.”

  “Ah! Kael! Finally. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  She looked hurried, almost nervous.

  “Yes? What’s going on?”

  She lifted her head, stared at him… then exclaimed:

  “Good grief, have you seen your face? What happened to you?”

  “I… experimented with life,” Kael replied bitterly.

  Connie shrugged, then suddenly, her eyes sparkled.

  “Doesn’t matter. I landed a contract with a big shot!”

  “With the dance masters?” Kael asked skeptically.

  “Oh no, much bigger than that!

  The order comes from the High Lands!”

  She was trembling with excitement like a child about to show a drawing.

  Kael, on the other hand, remained stone-faced.

  “You understand, Kael? With a commission like this, we could expand our network, reach the High Lands, maybe even export outside Soléandre!”

  She grabbed his shoulders, practically ready to kiss him.

  But Kael cut her short, voice cold:

  “And why would the High Lands need the work of poor weavers? They have the finest couturiers up there.”

  Connie’s joy dimmed slightly.

  “It’s because of the dress you made…”

  A vein throbbed on Kael’s temple.

  “How did they even see it? It’s not finished.”

  “Finished or not, they loved it. And they want it.

  You’ll be sent to the High Lands to complete it and—”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  Connie blinked.

  “What do you mean, out of the question? Do you even realize the opportunity? I could raise everyone’s pay—yours too! And the client’s reward—”

  Kael straightened, voice trembling:

  “They throw their clothes in the river upstream.

  We fish them out like dogs picking up scraps—and now they want their trash back once I’ve turned it into art?

  No, Connie. Never.

  I made that dress for Maria.

  It’s her dream to become a lunar dancer. I won’t turn her hope into a toy for some ‘Lady’ who’ll discard it in six months.”

  He turned to leave.

  Connie’s voice snapped like a whip:

  “That wasn’t a request, Kael. That was an order.

  I took you in because I owed your mother. She wouldn’t have hesitated a second!”

  Kael’s blood boiled.

  “She would NEVER have accepted this. And you know it.”

  Connie clenched her fists, desperate:

  “You really don’t get it?

  With this contract, I could buy more boats, expand the workshop, build an empire!

  Put your principles aside for once. You owe me that much…”

  She slumped back into her chair, eyes feverish.

  “You think it’s a coincidence, Kael?

  That the Inébranlables just happened to discover the dress?”

  Kael froze.

  “You didn’t…”

  “I had to,” she snapped.

  “I knew you were hiding it—I’d seen you working on it when you thought no one was watching.

  So when a man from the High Lands came… I showed it to him.”

  Kael’s vision blurred with anger.

  “You… showed it?

  You stole my work, Connie!”

  She slammed her palm on the desk.

  “Your work?

  That dress was sewn with OUR thread, OUR needles, OUR silk!

  If I hadn’t covered for you, you wouldn’t even have had permission to START half of it!”

  “I made it for Maria,” Kael hissed.

  “Not for some High Lander to parade around with like a trophy.”

  Connie’s eyes gleamed with ambition.

  “And did the client say who it was for? Or why?”

  “No. Just a sealed request, with a travel permit for you.

  A real one. I checked.

  It lets you go up there legally. No questions asked.”

  Kael froze.

  “They asked for me?”

  Connie nodded.

  “Specifically.

  Not a replacement. Not another weaver.

  YOU.

  The creator.”

  “So what? You’re selling me off to their whims?”

  “I’m trying to keep us alive,” she whispered.

  “How do you think we survive down here?

  On scraps of cloth thrown from upstream?

  If we get this contract, no one here will ever have to beg again.”

  She paused, locking her gaze into his.

  “Yes. I betrayed your trust.

  But sometimes you have to betray a little… to save a lot.”

  Kael said nothing—breath trembling.

  He could have yelled, smashed the desk, stormed out.

  Instead, he pressed his white band around his forehead and murmured:

  “I understand why you did it, Connie.

  You want to protect the workshop.

  The women here.

  I’m not blind.”

  He looked up, eyes sharpening.

  “But I won’t betray Maria.

  I promised her this dress.

  So tell me… how do we make sure she gets hers?”

  Connie froze—surprised by his clarity.

  Then her expression softened.

  “Maria will get her dress, Kael. I swear it.

  I kept the patterns you drew.

  The drafts you left behind.

  I’ll have my best weavers finish it.

  When the time comes, she’ll have a dress worthy of her dream.”

  Kael scrutinized her a long moment… then nodded.

  “Then I’ll keep my promise.

  I work for Maria, yes—

  but also for all of you here.

  Not for the Inébranlables.”

  Connie gave him a tired smile.

  “And I work for all the women trying to survive here.

  Sometimes our paths cross.

  Sometimes they clash.

  But I like to believe we’re aiming for the same thing.”

  A heavy silence settled—an unspoken pact.

  He reached the door when Connie whispered, softer than he’d ever heard her:

  “Your mother would be proud of you, Kael.”

  He froze, hand on the handle.

  “She was like a sister to me,” Connie continued, voice trembling.

  “I’m only here because of her.

  She taught me how to sew when I was a nobody.

  She taught me we could weave more than rags…

  She saved me, Kael.”

  He lowered his gaze, throat tight.

  “Then why do you want to trample what she left us?” he breathed.

  “Because I want her legacy to survive,” Connie answered.

  “And because every thread you stitch… she lives through you.”

  Kael couldn’t answer.

  He opened the door and left, the sound of paperwork and Connie’s breathing fading behind him.

  He descended the stairs, still shaken by her words.

  The workshop’s noise swallowed him again—but he veered away, slipping through a small door.

  It was his refuge: the private workshop that once belonged to his mother.

  Connie had left it to him like a silent inheritance.

  A narrow room, time-stained walls… and a lingering warmth.

  As soon as he entered, a smell enveloped him—oil, heated linen, dried lavender.

  Sometimes he almost believed she was still there.

  The walls were covered in faded sketches: silhouettes of lunar dancers, hastily drawn patterns, scattered notes.

  A wooden mannequin stood in the corner, surrounded by thread spools, worn cushions full of needles, heaps of unfinished silk.

  And then… there was the dress.

  Resting on a solitary mannequin, half covered by a protective cloth.

  Kael lifted the veil gently, as if uncovering a forbidden secret.

  The fabric shimmered faintly under the pale light filtering through a skylight.

  Fine embroideries rippled like living veins.

  He touched the unfinished hem.

  “Maria…” he whispered. “I promised you.”

  He remembered the first time she spoke of her dream—to become a lunar dancer, to glide across the Soléen dressed in light.

  This dress had been born from that dream.

  But now it was a battlefield—between him, Connie, and the High Lands.

  Kael sat heavily on a crooked chair, hands pressing against his band.

  The familiar smell, the sketches, the dress…

  All of it reminded him how much he stood to lose.

  Under the pale light, the dress revealed itself piece by piece, as if breathing.

  And Kael watched silently—until anger swallowed the vision of Maria wearing it.

  In her place…

  he saw an Inébranlable.

  A privileged figure wrapped in silk that had never touched hardship.

  His blood ignited.

  With a sudden motion, he shoved over a spare mannequin.

  Papers tore from the walls, fluttering to the floor.

  His ragged breath filled the small room.

  He leaned against the wall, fists clenched, veins swollen—

  —with only regret left for comfort.