They stood in the center of the arena.
The Imperial Loom — an ancient circular platform of floating threadlight, suspended above the Grand Spindle. Below it churned the heart of the Empire's energy, where abandoned threads were burned into raw power. Above them, thousands watched from mirrored towers, some physically present, most through streams that filtered every micro-expression, every shimmer of fabric, to the world.
The Loom had not hosted a public duel in over twenty years.
Now, it would witness the first open challenge against the High Council of Fashion in living memory.
---
Sloane wore her mother's coat — the Threadguard. Lined with ancestor fibers, it shimmered with flashes of defiance and memory. Her dress underneath was midnight obsidian, embroidered with blooming thorn roses: a promise that beauty would draw blood.
Cassien adjusted her cuff quietly, his fingers brushing hers.
"Whatever happens," he murmured, "this moment is yours."
She looked up at him, heart a knot of fear and certainty.
"I know."
Ari handed her a spindle-hilt. It looked like a slim dagger wrapped in silk, but Sloane knew it was more than that — it housed the code to her entire collection. She could summon each garment with a flick, armor herself mid-motion, or cloak herself in illusions spun from storythread.
"Thread ready," Ari said softly.
---
The Seamripper challenger stepped onto the Loom.
She was tall, masked, and expressionless. Her suit changed shades with her every breath — sometimes matte, sometimes radiant, always unpredictable. The Empire had coded her with full autonomous authority. She wasn't a person. She was the enforcement of legacy.
The voice of the Loom rang out — high, artificial, and genderless:
"Thread duel initiated."
"Challenger: Sloane of House Era."
"Defender: Seamripper 4-C. Authority Level: Execution."
"Terms: Design Dominance."
A hush fell.
Design Dominance was the deadliest of fashion duels — not simply based on strength or speed, but on live creation, interpretation, and resonance. Contestants would manifest garments in real time, crafting power from emotion and narrative. The audience judged. The Loom enforced.
"Begin."
---
Sloane moved first.
She spun on her heel, casting a trail of gold stitchlight behind her, summoning the Drape of Echoes — a flowing cape that mirrored the emotional states of those watching. It surged with awe. A ripple of anticipation.
The Seamripper responded with Nullvein, a bodysuit of coded static. It reflected nothing. Absorbed everything. It was silence incarnate.
Sloane narrowed her eyes. Fine.
She spun her spindle again, summoning Heartlash — a whip-sash of red silk that struck with the sting of heartbreak. It coiled like a lover's promise, lashed like betrayal.
The Seamripper countered with Inversion Coil, and the whip turned on Sloane — her own heartbreak cutting into her arm.
She staggered.
But she didn't fall.
---
"Theme lock," the Loom intoned. "Narrative shift: Legacy."
Sloane gasped — the Loom had set the stakes. It would favor the one whose garments best expressed their origin, their House.
She glanced at the crowd, then back at Cassien, who stood still, unreadable. Was he thinking of his own House? Of what it meant for him to stand here, against the Empire's laws, at her side?
Sloane gritted her teeth, bleeding from the shoulder, and cast her strongest stitch yet.
She summoned The Dress of Reclamation.
It was crafted from threads buried in the earth of her family's ruined atelier. It shimmered with mourning and fury — silver-black, with a bodice that moved like smoke, and a skirt cut from designs once banned. The dress hummed with ancestral resonance.
The Loom shuddered.
Crowds gasped.
Even the Seamripper hesitated.
Sloane stood tall, arms raised, voice ringing clear:
"This is my House. These are my roots. You tried to erase them. Now they write themselves into the future."
The Seamripper launched forward — but the Dress of Reclamation responded with a blast of sonic threadforce, repelling the attack.
Sloane didn't stop.
She raised her spindle and drew again — this time, Needlewings, an accessory her mother had only sketched. It attached at the back like a harness, then exploded into radiant thread-feathers.
She soared.
Above the Seamripper.
Above the crowd.
Above the Empire.
---
The crowd erupted.
The Loom cracked — not from damage, but from transformation.
"Narrative Dominance established."
"Victory: Challenger, House Era."
Sloane landed in the center of the Loom, breathing hard, blood running from her arm — and lifted her chin.
The Seamripper dissolved into threads and smoke.
The duel was over.
---
The Chancellor of the Empire rose slowly from her observatory. Her ministers whispered. Her face was a mask of fury beneath perfect makeup.
"She has influence now."
"Yes," murmured her head advisor. "And worse — a following."
---
Back in the Tower of Threads, as night fell and headlines screamed SLOANE ERA CLAIMS LOOM in fifty languages, Cassien walked with her along the rooftop.
"You changed everything today," he said.
She looked out at the skyline. "Not yet. But I will."
Cassien turned toward her. His voice dropped.
"You know this makes us enemies of the Empire."
Sloane took his hand.
"I never wanted a throne, Cassien. I wanted the freedom to create. But if a throne is what it takes to protect that…"
She stepped closer.
"I'll design it myself."
---
And as the lights of the city blinked like camera flashes — millions of eyes on her, billions of hearts tuning in — Sloane kissed him.
Not softly. Not sweetly.
But like claiming.
Like war.