A Tale of Lace, Love, and Looming Danger

  The Ceremony of Suspicion

  Sir Taylor Tithe had braved the Bats of Bustwood, parried the Corset Crabs of Cupwood Gde, and even survived the emotionally complex siege of the sphinx. And yet, nothing—nothing—had prepared him for the mortal terror of his own wedding day.

  He stood before the altar, shifting nervously, sweat glistening on his brow and dampening the colr of his embroidered cravat.

  “Stop fidgeting,” muttered Marlo Quickstitch beside him. “You’re about to be married, not fitted for execution.”

  Taylor offered a sickly smile. “Is there really a difference?”

  Behind them, Dame Threadbare adjusted her enchanted shoulder epaulettes and grunted. “Depends on the bride.”

  Just then, Lady Lacia Cupwell’s father, the grim and silver-bearded Lord Cummerbund, stepped forward to offer Taylor a congratutory nod... and a very backhanded blessing.

  “Well,” Cummerbund said loudly, to the entire gathered nobility, “I suppose if she must marry a tailor, it might as well be one who knows how to duck.”

  There was ughter. Polite. Sharp. Too honest.

  Taylor’s ears turned red.

  Then came the vows. Lacia’s was elegant, romantic, and ced with quiet strength.

  Taylor’s was... less so.

  He cleared his throat, unfurled a small scroll, and began to read:

  “Lacia, my thread, my thimble, my unexpectedly sharp pin of destiny. I promise to hem your sorrows and tailor joy to your size. I’ll reinforce our love at every seam, and if it ever tears, I shall—uh—darn it with my heart...?”

  Lacia blinked.

  Buttons the Squire wept. Quietly. From secondhand embarrassment.

  The Wedding Crashed

  Just as the officiant—Grand Seamstress Velour—raised her enchanted shears to bind the couple’s rings with a thread of eternal matrimony—

  BOOM!

  The great hall’s double doors blew inward, sending nobles scattering and chiffon table skirts fpping like panicked birds.

  “STOP THIS THREAD-FORSAKEN FARCE!” roared Lady Veronique Lacewrath.

  She stood in silhouette, framed by smoke and vengeance, draped in bck tulle that shimmered with hexes. Her Needlepoint Brigands fanned out behind her like an avant-garde chorus of doom, their enchanted seam rippers glinting in the candlelight.

  “I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!” Veronique screamed.

  “Too te for subtlety,” muttered Dame Threadbare.

  In a fsh, members of the Tailors’ Guild rose from the pews—Master Hemrude, Stitchwitch Mallia, and Iron-Bobbin Bix among them. Each unsheathed their ceremonial golden shears, which lengthened and shimmered like enchanted fencing swords.

  “What is this?” cried a noblewoman.

  “A duel of tailors!” shouted Buttons, diving under a table with a champagne bottle.

  Screams erupted as magic needles zipped through the air, enchanted pincushions exploded in puffs of stuffing, and the elegant wedding hall became a battleground of fashion warfare. Sir Tithe drew his enchanted fabric shears, deflecting a spool of razor-sharp thread aimed at his throat. The brigands surged forward, casting bolts of thread-snare spells, tangling nobles, and ripping open sleeves and bodices in humiliating magical attacks.

  Master Hemrude parried a rogue’s sleeve-shredder with a spiral-backhand slice.

  Iron-Bobbin Bix leapt onto a banquet table, sshing dinner rolls in twain to deflect a volley of darting bobbins.

  Dame Threadbare, as fearless as ever, used an entire curtain as a makeshift net, ensnaring two brigands in a tangled mess of embroidered regret

  And Stitchwitch Mallia invoked Overlockus Maxima, creating a glowing seam-shield that repelled a barrage of cy curses.

  The Duel of the Brides (Now with Daggers)

  As the hall erupted in sartorial warfare, Veronique stormed toward the altar, fury in every stomp.

  “I WAS HIS FIRST MUSE!” she shouted.

  Lacia, her veil dissolving into raw thread from a wayward unraveling spell, narrowed her eyes.

  “And now, you’ll be my st problem.”

  From beneath her bouquet, she unsheathed steel-tipped knitting needles, enchanted and glinting.

  Veronique conjured a jagged dagger made from a broken corset bone, dripping with metaphor.

  They met mid-aisle in a csh of sparks, silk, and deeply repressed rage.

  They spun across the room, crashing into the chocote fountain, knocking over a noblewoman’s hat that immediately caught fire, and briefly taking the fight to the chandelier (where neither had the upper body strength to remain).

  Their gowns tangled. Their curses flew.

  “YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!” Veronique shrieked.

  “YOU WEREN’T EVEN INVITED!” Lacia shrieked back.

  Just as Veronique prepared to cast her Spell of Eternal Binding, Taylor lunged forward and threw his Golden Measuring Tape—a family heirloom—around her wrists.

  With a whispered command, the tape twisted and locked tight.

  Veronique screamed as her sleeves stitched themselves into a straitjacket. Her gown betrayed her, defting dramatically.

  Dame Threadbare tossed a monogrammed handkerchief into her mouth. “Hush now.”

  The Needlepoint Brigands, leaderless, retreated—leaving behind scraps of ribbon, torn invitations, and a few cursed cravats.

  Happily Ever After (Still Tense)

  Once the confetti of battle had settled, the Grand Seamstress coughed delicately.

  “Shall we continue?”

  Lacia and Taylor, panting and bruised, nodded.

  The thread of matrimony was tied.

  The kiss was shared.

  And amid the wreckage, Marlo Quickstitch raised a gss of victory wine and said, “I’ve been to weddings with less stabbing. But not by much.”

  Buttons added, “Can we keep the leftover cake?”

  The Dragon, imprinted on him forever from their previous adventure, circled once overhead in approval, and somewhere deep beneath the ruins of Bobylon the Sphinx murmured,“This is just the beginning for him.”

  Epilogue: The Lacewrath Oath

  Somewhere, far from Cleavendale’s grandest wedding disaster, Lady Veronique Lacewrath sat brooding in the dim glow of a candlelit tailor’s shop. She had been untangled, but her fury remained knotted tight.

  The Needlepoint Brigands had scattered, her dress was in ruins, and worst of all—she had been bested by a seamstress.

  A commoner.

  A knitting-needle-wielding commoner.

  She clenched the remains of her shredded gown, her mind racing. “Tithe thinks this is over,” she whispered to herself, voice trembling with a mixture of scorn and ambition. “That they think this is over.”

  She rose, gliding across the room, her tattered train dragging behind her like the remnants of a forgotten legend. She reached for a spool of Ebonthread, a fabric so dark it swallowed candlelight whole, and began weaving.

  Thread by thread, her revenge took shape.

  She would not settle for another petty wedding disruption.

  No.

  She would rise again.

  And when the time came, Cleavendale would know the name Lady Veronique Lacewrath, Weaver of Vengeance.

  And her next creation—her greatest masterpiece—would be stitched not with thread… but with retribution.

  To Be Continued…