The Noble Gathering lit up the upper city like a crown of stars.
Silver banners swayed from the spires. Floating lanterns shimmered across the sky. Every family that mattered was present — dressed in layered silks, armor-laced robes, or shimmering crystal attire.
But none of them wore what Calen wore.
His coat was gray-black, matte like cooled ash, with an ember-glow lining that pulsed faintly at the sleeves. There were no family crests, no overdone embroidery — just clean cuts, precision threading, and a flame-proof weave that whispered power without shouting.
He felt every eye on him.
And for the first time… he didn't hate it.
---
"Who tailored your coat?" asked a girl from House Fen. Her voice was soft, but edged with curiosity. "It's not court-commissioned."
Calen gave a casual shrug. "Someone from outside."
"Outsiders don't have this kind of finesse," another noble muttered. "It must be stolen work."
Calen didn't flinch. "If it's stolen, I'm keeping it."
The nobles chuckled, but the envy lingered behind their smiles.
---
An older woman with brass rings and lightning etched into her gloves circled him twice. "This threadwork isn't just aesthetic," she murmured. "It's practical. Whoever made this knew heat signatures. Look—fade-stitched cuffs. My storms don't react."
Calen blinked. He hadn't noticed that part.
"She's getting better…" he whispered without meaning to.
"She?" the woman asked sharply.
Calen cleared his throat. "Never mind."
---
Later, he stood at the balcony while music floated in from the main hall.
He leaned on the railing, staring out toward the lower city — where Leia was likely bent over thread and fabric again, unseen.
"Why are you even doing this?" he muttered. "Why hide?"
But he knew the answer.
If they knew who made it, they'd never praise the work. They'd discredit it. Mock it. Try to buy her out… or crush her.
In silence, he looked down at the coat.
It glowed faintly under the moonlight.
A soft, living kind of fire.
---
Meanwhile, down in the outer district, Leia sat in their corner room, stitching calmly under the dim glow of a rusted lantern.
She didn't know what was being said up there.
Didn't know that her design had turned heads.
Didn't know that three noble teens had already asked their tailors to "make something like that gray coat with the flare edges."
But somehow, she felt something stir.
Not in her hands.
In her wrist.
A faint warmth under the skin.
She looked down.
The needle-and-thread symbol glimmered once… then stilled.
---
Back at the palace, Calen caught sight of his brother in a gold-spun cape laced with actual phoenix feathers.
He grinned.
"Flammable," he muttered.
Then turned, letting the ash-coat swirl behind him like smoke.
---