Dorian stepped back from the mannequin, arms crossed as he regarded his creation.
"…Ehh. It look... Kinda good."
Silence.
Above, Madam Legs shifted slightly where she clung to the ceiling beam. Her abdomen twitched once. Then again. Then came a long, deliberate shake, judgmental. Almost disappointed.
Dorian frowned. "What?"
Another shake. Slower this time. Painfully slow.
He waved a hand toward the dress. "It's creative, alright? Nobles love that shit don't they?"
The spider tapped a leg against the beam click, click.
He squinted up at her. "Oh, so you're a critic now? What, the composition lacks balance?"
Tap. Tap-tap.
"Don't you give me that tone."
Madam Legs descended slightly on a thread, lowering herself until her many eyes hovered at eye level.
Dorian recoiled. "Alright, alright! You made the silk, I get it. I'm the weak link. We've covered this."
She tilted her head. If a spider could look unimpressed, she did.
Dorian sighed and turned back to the dress. The more he stared, the worse it looked. He was talented in many things, just not for this kind of stuff apparently.
"Maybe it's supposed to be unbalanced," he muttered. "Symbolic. Of chaos. Of asymmetry. Of, you know… life."
Madam Legs dropped the rest of the way to the floor with a soft thump. She skittered to the hem and gave it a tentative prod, then jerked back as if offended on a cellular level.
"It's not even that bad."
She hissed.
She began tugging at a loose seam with one leg.
"Stop that! That took me two and half hours to make!"
He dove to rescue the fabric, but she reared up in protest.
They locked eyes.
"…This is insane," Dorian muttered, stepping back and throwing up his hands. "You know what? I'm leaving."
He grabbed his coat and coin pouch in a flurry of movement.
Madam Legs followed him to the door with a click-tapping rhythm.
"If you're such an expert then why don't you make it yourself?"
The door slammed shut behind him.
Madam Legs stared at it for a beat. Then turned to the dress.
Slowly, methodically… she began pulling the sleeve off.
.
.
.
The road ahead was quiet.
Inside the carriage, lavender mingled with the scent of parchment. The curtains swayed gently, morning light striping across the polished interior. Saintess Calienne sat still, hands folded in her lap, posture shaped by decades of ritual.
Bandages wrapped her fingers, hidden beneath layers of embroidered silk. Everything about her was composed. Soft. Steady.
Outside, the crowd lined the streets. Some bowed at the sight of her. Others traced the sign of the blessing across their hearts.
Calienne smiled gently, inclining her head just so, a perfect motion, practiced until it felt natural. Comforting.
They needed her to be this way. Constantly Divine and Pure.
And truly, she didn't mind.
Peace was meant to be given.
One of the clerics riding beside her carriage turned and said, "You look quite happy today, my lady."
She offered a faint smile. "I had a dream."
"I assume it's a good one?"
Her gaze dropped to her bandaged hands, then drifted to the passing faces.
"Yes," she said. "I think it started that way."
The carriage turned onto a wider avenue. The crowd here was larger. Quieter.
Calienne let her gaze move across them, open, unguarded. Her smile stayed fixed as she scanned the crowd: mothers, shopkeepers, children.
And then paused.
A man stood near the edge of the road, arms crossed, one brow raised like someone had blocked his shortcut. His coat was rumpled. His hair only half-brushed. His expression was a mix of boredom and irritation.
He wasn't looking at her.
But she saw him.
And then he saw her.
The dream returned. A red sky. Ash falling. A tower broken in half. A faceless figure in a mirrored mask. A thousand screams reflected on its surface.
And those eyes.
They were his.
Her chest tightened. Something turned behind her ribs.
But not a flicker reached her face.
Not a twitch. Not a blink.
She smiled. As always.
The crowd saw no change.
Only she knew her breath had stopped.
Then, he looked at her once more.
Then he turned away.
And walked off.
Gone... Just like that.
Calienne said nothing.
The carriage rolled onward.
.
.
.
Dorian turned down the next alley, rubbing his temple.
"Who the hell gets that many people to stand in the road for a carriage ride? Took five minutes just to walk around."
He paused.
Thought of the girl inside. The way she looked at him, wide-eyed, frozen. Like she'd seen a ghost.
He frowned.
"…Weird."
And kept walking.
The city thinned out as he moved. Fewer crowds. No incense. Just cobblestone streets and the occasional bird that looked like it ran a gang.
Then he saw the sign swinging in the breeze:
Eline's Needlecraft
He squinted.
"...Ehh, Worth a shot."
The bell chimed as he stepped inside.
Everything was neat, quiet, organized to a level he found personally offensive.
A girl sat behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, stitching something blood-red and formal. She didn't look up.
"Browsing or Buying?"
"Dress," Dorian said, approaching. "Commission. If you mind."
"And when's the deadline?"
"The sooner the better."
"And the budget?"
"Flexible," he lied.
She finally looked up. "Alright. Let's see it."
He laid the silk out on the table, gently.
Her fingers hovered, then touched it, light, reverent.
"…Where did you get this?"
"In my basement," he said.
She gave him a long, blank look.
"I'm not joking, a spider made it."
"Fine, keep your secrets."
She studied the weave in silence. "It's very beautiful. Strong. Absolutely deranged. And you want this turned into a dress?"
"Not just a dress. A masterpiece. Elegant. Noble. Slightly dangerous."
She nodded. "Well I can do it for you. Two-fifty."
Dorian blinked. "Two hundred and fifty gold?"
"Rush order, high quality fabric. And I'm not even charging for the designs."
"That's straight up robbery."
She shrugged. "Then go rob someone else."
He scoffed. "Fine. I will."
With a dramatic swirl, he turned and swept out the door.
Two streets later.
Dorian stopped mid-step.
Thought of Evelyn's perfume. Her smile. The checks. The way she'd said, "Don't let me down, my curator~~" like silk wrapped around a knife.
He sighed.
"Damn it all."
And went straight back to the tailor's shop.
The bell chimed again.
The tailor didn't look up. "Changed your mind yet?"
"Yes," Dorian muttered. "I'll pay it for two-fifty."
She didn't even blink. "Three hundred."
"…What?"
"You left. You ruined my mood for today."
"I—what? That's not even how this—what the fu—"
She pointed at the door. "You're free to walk again if you like."
Dorian opened his mouth. Closed it. Ground his teeth.
He counted the coins out slowly, like each one drained his soul.
"Three hundred," he said, laying them on the counter.
She smiled, slid the pouch toward her, and nodded. "Pleasure doing business."
"Likewise..."
As he turned to go, she added, "You know... With silk like that? You really shouldn't fold it. It creases."
He answered mockingly. "And why should I care exactly?"
"Just saying... Silk like that's worth more than gold… I might just take it for myself."
"....."
"....."
They stared at each other, awkwardly.
"I'm joking, by the way."
Then he left without another word.
Outside, Dorian stared down at his now-lighter pouch.
"Three hundred gold," he muttered. "And free insults to boot."
He kept walking.
"Well... Atleast that takes care of that."