I closed the door of the seamstress's inn with a quiet click, shivering as the dim light and stale air swallowed me up.


The seamstress’s shop was dark, lit only by a few sputtering candles scattered across the cramped tables covered in half-finished projects. A faint draft rustled through the room, carrying the musty smell of old wool and linen left out too long in the damp air. But behind it all was a stronger scent—something sour, like vinegar and stale bread. I wrinkled my nose, stepping carefully to avoid the loose pins scattered across the floor like tiny traps. The seamstress wasn’t one for cleanliness, and even less so for warmth.


To my right, hunched over her work as always, sat Madam Therrow, her eyes narrowed behind tiny spectacles as she bent over a delicate piece of lace. Even in the low light, her scowl was visible. Her lips were thin and pressed tightly together, making deep creases in her pale, pinched face. The flickering light cast her features into sharp relief, highlighting every wrinkle and scowl line that had likely been etched into her skin for decades. She barely glanced at me as I entered, her fingers moving over the lace with swift, precise movements, like she was more machine than woman.


“Close the door quietly, girl,” she muttered without looking up, her voice as sharp as a needle. “I don’t need the draft spoiling my work.”


“Yes, Madam,” I replied, careful to keep my tone as neutral as possible. Every word exchanged between us felt like a dance over hot coals. Madam Therrow tolerated my presence, but just barely, and only because she needed an extra pair of hands to finish the orders she was so often late on.


To the left, perched on stools near the fabric shelves, were Lidia and Fayra. Both of them had that unmistakable Aralyn look: flawless skin, fair hair like spun gold, and eyes in shades that seemed to catch the light and throw it back with cold superiority. I could practically feel their disdain like a palpable force in the room, particularly Fayra's, whose piercing gaze barely glanced at me before narrowing in distaste. If looks could burn, I’d have been scorched to cinders long ago.


Fayra smirked as I passed, her mouth curving up in that too-sweet way that had fooled me the first few months I'd worked here. She was the very image of innocence, all soft smiles and gentle words when Madam Therrow was around. But I’d learned the hard way what hid behind that facade. It had been Fayra who, just a few months ago, had stolen credit for the dress I’d spent weeks crafting, stitching every intricate detail with painstaking care. When it had been praised by a noble customer, Fayra had claimed she’d designed it. And when I’d dared to stand up for myself, she’d made it sound like I was the one trying to take credit for her work. The seamstress had believed her, of course. I was nothing but a nameless servant girl, while Fayra wore the proud Aralyn blood like a crown.


From then on, things had soured between us. Fayra's glances held a cutting, quiet malice, and any conversation between us was laced with barbs I barely avoided. I’d learned to keep my head down, to bite back my words, to endure her petty torments and lies with clenched fists.


Lidia was no better. She wasn’t as openly cruel as Fayra, but she had a way of dismissing me, of turning her nose up and pretending I wasn’t there, as though I were a piece of furniture rather than a person. She looked at me with barely disguised disdain, but it was less personal than Fayra’s; it was the kind of casual indifference you’d give to a stray cat wandering too close.


Tonight, they whispered to each other, their voices low and filled with laughter that, to my ears, was filled with mocking. I could just make out the edges of their conversation—something about the latest ball at the Earl’s manor. It's what the girls our age could ever talk about. Fayra glanced over at me, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Oh, I’d almost forgotten you were here, pet,” she said, with a sugary sweetness that made me clench my jaw. “Still saving up for that dress of yours?”


I didn’t reply, but the heat burned in my cheeks. It was another one of her little jabs, a reminder that the scraps I earned from Madam Therrow barely kept me clothed, let alone let me dream of anything finer. And every time she mocked me, it reminded me of that dress—the one she had stolen from me.


I set my bundle of yarn on the nearest table, pushing aside a torn shirt I’d be mending that night. It was too late to do anything about the past now, but the sting of betrayal was still fresh whenever Fayra’s eyes fell on me. And yet, despite it all, I tolerated it. Madam Therrow was fair with wages, even if she was cold and quick to judge. The money here was more than I’d make on the street or in any other servant’s job. I needed this, even if every fiber of my being ached to put Fayra in her place.


Settled onto my stool and began threading my needle, focusing on the small, repetitive movements that kept my hands busy and my mind quiet. My fingers worked quickly, used to the feel of the coarse fabric and the pull of the thread.