Sophie hurried through the narrow alleyways, the unfinished cloak tucked firmly under her arm. The client could arrive at any moment, and she was still missing crucial pieces to complete the garment. Sophies eyes darted from stall to stall, searching for a bundle of musk ox wool for the lining, leather accents that still needed to be added, and the final buttons for the sleeves.

“Hey Sophie, looking for a collar for one of those cloaks of yours again?” called a market vendor, waving a furry pelt in his hand. Sophie shot a quick glance in his direction and nodded briefly, her thoughts already on the next item she needed.

“Or perhaps something more elegant for the refined gentlemen and ladies among us?” he continued, hoping to catch her attention. “No, that pelt will do fine,” Sophie answered, already moving on, her eyes fixed on the accessories she still had to find.

Suddenly an older woman grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward a carefully stacked pile of fabric. “I’ve just received new cloth, wonderfully soft!” the woman said, drawing the velvet along Sophies cheek. Sophie pulled herself free, her heart hammering in her chest. “Not now,” she said shortly. She needed to keep moving, but the woman held her in place and pressed a few lengths of fabric into her hands.

“I really don’t have time,” Sophie murmured, though she still ran her fingers briefly over the fabrics. Her creativity was already beginning to stir.

“Stay a little longer, I have tea and biscuits for you,” the woman said, trying to tempt her. Sophie felt the time ticking away and wriggled herself out of the creaking chair the woman had pushed under her. “Another time,” she called, pulling free and hurrying on.

At every stall where she stopped, the vendors tried to hold her back with chatter and unnecessary offers. One man tried to push a leather scrap on her that she had absolutely no need for, and another buried her in velvet fabrics.

Eventually, breathless and with an armful of things, she spotted the perfect buttons glinting in the light.

Without hesitation she grabbed what she needed and paid quickly. The moment she stepped back into the crowd, she felt an uncomfortable tension in the air. This time it wasn’t the eager traders watching her, this was clearly something else.

In the bustle she nearly walked straight into a guard. His dark leather armor, covered by an elegant white robe, made his frame all the more imposing. Sophie held her breath and her heartbeat quickened. The large pile of items in her arms, her hurried manner, and the market vendors who kept calling after her, it was no wonder the guard was now on her heels. His steps quickened, his eyes fixed on her. Even though she had done nothing wrong, she knew there was no time to explain that to him. She glanced over her shoulder in a panic, waiting for the right moment. A woman pushing her cart through the streets offered the perfect opportunity. Sophie ducked behind her, zigzagged through the crowd, and disappeared into one of the many narrow alleyways.

“Looks like you survived again,” said the boy as he climbed out of his cart. At the sight of a potential customer he immediately straightened up into his usual relaxed pose. Sophie took a quick look over her shoulder to check whether the guard was still following. Only once she was certain it was safe did she crouch down and inspect the many colored rolls of thread laid out on a cloth. The boy leaned casually against the cart with his arms crossed, watching as she carefully pulled out threads and examined them. Her cheeks began to flush from the musty scent that rose up, a scent that was surprisingly familiar, much like Tristan’s. It wasn’t overwhelming or unpleasant; it felt like something she already knew. “These, please,” she said quietly, holding out precisely those rolls without making eye contact.

“Those aren’t for you, they have no color. Besides, it’s a terribly rough cord, better suited to the wilder forms of magic. These smooth threads conduct considerably better and are far more commonly used. Why not take those instead?”

“It d-doesn’t matter to me,” she said haltingly. She held out a few more rolls, placed her coin purse alongside them, and hoped he would make a fair offer. “You never stop surprising me,” he said, fishing out half the coins and handing her the rest back. “I hope you don’t do this with everyone, the vendors here will take serious advantage of that.”

“Thank you, Tristan,” she said softly, her gaze sliding to the ground as she fidgeted nervously with the edges of the rolls. The thought of carrying his scent with her made her hands tremble. Suddenly she noticed a shadow fall over her and felt a heavy breath on the back of her neck. “You’re coming with me,” said a voice, without explanation or hesitation. The guard had found her. He was clearly convinced he had caught a thief and grabbed her by the arm. Sophie froze, and in her panic she let everything she had so carefully gathered drop from her hands. The cloak, the wool, the buttons, all of it fell to the ground. At that moment Tristan stepped between them. He tried to push the guard aside, with the result that the guard remained exactly where he was, as if he had walked into a wall.

“Look here,” Tristan said quickly. He held the cloak up and pushed the initials under the guard’s nose. “I don’t need to tell you whose this is, do I?”

The guard snatched the cloak from Tristan’s hands and stared at the initials. “This is… this belongs to…”

“Exactly,” Tristan cut him off, “and you certainly don’t want to be the one guard who causes this particular order to arrive late. You of all people should know how that could end.”

The guard swallowed and stepped back, the unspoken threat clear. “You stole this,” he muttered, his earlier confidence gone.

Tristan placed a reassuring hand on Sophies head. The touch made her freeze again, causing the things she had just picked back up to fall to the ground once more. “Do you really believe this young woman has the nerve for that, or that she could survive a confrontation like that?” he said sharply.

The guard hastily pushed the cloak back against Tristan’s chest and mumbled: “I, I uh… I hear someone who needs me.” Without another glance he made himself scarce.

Tristan watched with a mixture of admiration and disbelief as Sophie, despite the intense run-in with the guard, picked up her needle and thread. As if nothing had happened, she calmly continued working on the cloak. With the final stitch and the securing of a small button on the sleeve, everything sat exactly as it should. “I need to deliver this quickly,” Sophie said, pausing to glance at the rolls she had intended to take with her. “Tristan, don’t sell those rolls, they’re for me,” she added, surprised by the firmness in her own voice. She waited while Tristan set the rolls safely aside. Sophie sighed, still slightly tense from the encounter with the guard, but determined to press on. She gave Tristan a brief reassuring smile and stepped back into the bustle of the main street.

Completely out of breath, Sophie returned to her father’s atelier. She quickly brushed the dust from her clothing and took a measured few steps toward him, as if she had been calmly waiting for his signal all along. Her father gave her a wink as the cloak was laid down behind him. The client, who had clearly grown impatient after the long wait, couldn’t hide her agitation, her fingers drummed rhythmically on the counter, her eyes kept sliding toward the clock, and her heels tapped ceaselessly on the stone floor.

With a polite bow her father presented the cloak. Before the woman would accept the garment, she pulled off her own old cloak and let it fall nonchalantly over Sophies head just as she reached to catch it.

“What do you think of the material?” her father asked pleasantly, helping the woman into the new garment. Sophie emerged from beneath the heavily perfumed cloak and looked up in surprise, her wild curls floating in front of her face.

A static glow filled the atelier, with small lightning sparks flickering through the woman’s clothing. With a simple snap of her fingers all the effects vanished instantly. “It will do, for now.” She turned and left the atelier just as quickly as she had arrived, without paying a single coin.

Her father noticed the dejected look on Sophies face and smoothed her hair back into place. “Your mother is busy, forgive her,” he said quietly.

She pulled a loose thread from her sleeve and asked: “Pa, why can grandmother and mama use magic and we can’t? Even my little brother,” she added softly. Her father embraced her warmly and held her firmly until the silence was broken by the crackling of the log in the hearth. “I just can’t understand how she could leave us,” she said, her voice rough, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. She stared blankly at the wood shavings swirling around the fire. Her father looked deep into his daughter’s ice-blue eyes and said: “Sometimes life takes a different turn than we expected, but that doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”

“And what about you, pa? Do you still love mama?” He smiled at the unexpected question. “Just as much as before.” With a loving look he wiped the tears from his daughter’s face with his handkerchief. “Sweetheart, don’t worry about your mother or that wretched magic. You have, just like me, an extraordinary creativity,” her father said with quiet pride.

“Well, I would have preferred to still have magic. I still don’t understand why you, with everything you’re capable of making, still end up making these cloaks. Didn’t you hate magic precisely because mama left?” The question he had been carrying in his thoughts for a long time had finally been asked aloud.

“Yes, that’s a fair question. Even though I’d much rather be writing stories,” he held up her mother’s old cloak. “At least these get worn,” he added with a self-mocking sigh. “I can’t do without them. Every stitch I set now pricks me in the finger. Even when my heart isn’t in what I’m creating, it has found its way to the most beautiful masterpiece I have ever made in collaboration, and that is you.” A shy smile seemed to surface from behind her disappointed expression.

“And your creations are just like the stories I’d much rather be writing. You bring all manner of interesting things together and try to weave them into something beautiful as a whole.”

With a determined look in her eyes she tilted her chin. “I’ll show mama that I can bring our family back together, with or without magic!”

“I’m curious to see it,” her father said, giving her cheek a gentle pinch. The mischievous glint in her eyes already told him everything. He pulled open a few drawers at the counter, rummaged for a moment, and took out the last few coins, which he pressed into her hand. “Buy yourself something nice.”

“Pa, I know we can’t afford this.”

He ran his hand over her head. “It’s all right, you’ve earned it.”

She nodded and let the little bell on the door ring softly as she left the atelier. Instead of returning to the busy market where she had gathered the materials for the cloak, she now turned in a different direction, toward the quieter part of the city. Although the smell of freshly baked biscuits and pastries hung all around her, what drew Sophie in most irresistibly was the aroma of chocolate.

“Ah, I see that sharp nose of yours has led you to my finest selection again,” said the chocolatier with a wide smile, twirling his mustache playfully. “Many a mage would grow considerably rounder eating the way you do,” he continued with a grin, always having suspected that Sophie was a mage, knowing that magic tended to create an irresistible craving for sweet things in those who practiced it.

Sophie felt flattered by his assumption and saw no reason to correct him. She filled the small box carefully, making sure to leave a little money over, and then made her way to a shaded spot beneath a tree in the park. She sat quietly enjoying her treats while keeping an eye on the busy crowd. From her strategic position she spotted her little brother Lucas appearing, dressed in a cloak she had made herself. It was immediately clear he was a mage, people stepped back, wary of the power he projected.

She quickly tucked the box of treats away and broke into a sprint, determined to catch up with him. She reached him in a quiet side street and tapped him on the shoulder. Lucas turned, his face twisting as if something unpleasant had touched him.

“Lu-Lucas,” Sophie stammered. “The cloak really suits you!”

“Something you’ll never wear,” he said with a mocking tone. He glanced at her briefly, his gaze resting a moment on her tunic.

Sophie made an attempt to ease the tension. “Well, it would help if you could tell me how you make those beams of light.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes to slits. “And why would I do that? It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Lucas, we’re family,” Sophie pressed, her voice full of hope.

A malicious grin crept across his face and with a gesture he invited her closer.

“All right,” he said slowly, as small sparks began flashing around his hand. “Go ahead and touch it, if you dare.”

Sophie felt immediately that something was off and instinctively stepped back. “Why tell you when I can just show you?” Lucas brought his hand dangerously close to her, sending sparks shooting toward her like uncontrolled bolts of lightning.

“Ow! Stop it, Lucas, you don’t hurt family!” Sophie cried out as the sparks reached her skin and began scorching her clothing.

“Our mother chose us, not you magicless nobodies.” He kept bringing his hand closer, forcing Sophie further back.

The magical beams seemed irresistibly drawn to her tunic. They were absorbed by the material and made it glow as if it were soaking up the energy. Warmth flooded her body, unlike the sharp, scorching sting of his earlier strikes. She frantically grabbed her box of chocolates from her pocket and tried to use it as a shield. It was already too late. The contents had melted completely. Lucas slapped the box from her hands and stamped on it. The melted chocolate seeped through the grooves of his shoe sole.

With a rising fury she felt her whole body tense, as her hair slowly rose on end. It was the same feeling as in their atelier, but this time the static field wasn’t coming from her mother, it was coming from her. The air around her came alive and the earlier harmless little sparks began growing into larger, threatening bolts of lightning. Sophies tears dried spontaneously. She stared at her hands with wide eyes, this was real, this was her magic.

With a rough movement she wiped her face clean. Lucas had stopped his assault. He stared at her with a look of pure fear. The energy dancing around her was more intense than anything he had ever been able to produce. Just as she was about to compose herself and extinguish the scorch marks on her clothing, she touched her tunic. The small sparks at her hands flared brilliantly and shot up in an instant into enormous crackling bolts of lightning that drove themselves with thunderous force into the adjacent wall. The beams coiled like swollen veins, shooting in every direction, and one of them flashed straight at Lucas. He gasped and fell backward, just in time to see the beam come to a stop directly before him and split the ground in front of him in two.

Lucas went white at the sight of the wall that had been struck and was now beginning to collapse. Sophie stared at the scene in bewilderment. Had she done this? Did she actually possess magic now? Lucas let out a loud cry and burst into tears, paralyzed by panic. Without hesitation, just as her father always did with her, Sophie walked to Lucas and put her arms around him. However infuriatingly irritating he could be, he was always still her little brother.

“Lucas, thank you for the magic lesson,” she said with sarcasm. Her embrace was anything but forceful or malicious in intent, and yet she was apparently already drawing the life from Lucas. The sparkling tendrils of magic around her were still being pulled toward her tunic. The thread in the fabric began to glow with a dark blue light that spread in rolling waves across the material. The glow faded gradually as it found its path, and with it the static field around them disappeared.

“What happened here!” shouted a group of guards who had come running at the noise. They blocked access to the street, checked for further casualties, and examined the enormous hole in the wall.

“I have absolutely no idea! “Sophie said, shaken, with Lucas in her arms, who now appeared to be unconscious.

At that moment her attention was caught by a new guard stepping onto the scene. His appearance commanded immediate attention. His white cloak, richly folded and decorated with intricate patterns, radiated authority. It was clear this guard held a higher rank.

“You there, what happened here?” asked the guard, who was clearly the commander. Sophie opened her mouth to answer, only to swallow her words back. He lowered himself to her level and reached for her wrist. The moment his fingers touched her, her skin began to tingle and the fine hairs all over her body stood up. With careful, methodical movements he pressed at a few points on her shoulders and neck, then frowned in puzzlement after repeating the same actions with her brother.

“You have no internal damage and no trace of magic,” he concluded after his inspection. “Do you have any idea how this happened?”

Sophie, overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, looked at the damage and shook her head. “I don’t know. Everything happened so fast…”

Her thoughts raced through her mind. Why had he said they possessed no magic? Everyone knew her brother could, he wasn’t wearing a cloak for nothing. What did that mean for her, given that she had just destroyed that wall?

Without taking his gaze from her, the commander leaned slightly forward. His words came out as a command: “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Sophie swallowed, but her voice came out steady, with a touch of pride. “I’m Sophie, daughter of the owner of The Lateral Stitch atelier. We make the cloaks for the great mages.”

His eyebrow shot up, clearly skeptical. Before he could question her further, another guard stepped forward, the man who had earlier confronted her alongside Tristan. In a slightly trembling voice he said: “This young woman… I saw her earlier working on the cloak belonging to… the grandmistress. She really is who she says she is.”

The commander, keeping a sharp eye on Sophie, let his gaze slide briefly to his subordinate before returning to her. After a short consideration he appeared to accept the man’s words and released her wrist.

Sophie immediately crouched beside her brother and lifted his limp hand. “You’re welcome to question my brother, though he could do with some attention,” she said with an awkward little laugh.

A soft clatter from the commander’s chain mail followed as he bent over Lucas. Sophie seized the moment to ask something quickly. “May I go? I was in the middle of an important commission for our atelier,” she lied.

The commander nodded in agreement, though he appeared somewhat taken aback by how quickly she disappeared.

Sophie ran with everything she had, her body trembling with tension. The little bell on their atelier door had barely rung before she was already storming up the stairs.

“Sophie! What happened?” her father called out in shock, letting the pin drop from his mouth at the sight of all the scorch marks. The client whose measurements he had just been taking was thrown into complete disarray at the sight of the measuring tape being pressed into her hands. Her father moved to go after Sophie but stopped halfway. First he guided the rather stout woman outside and then closed the door firmly behind her. With a few decisive clicks the door was locked and the ‘closed’ sign swung back and forth in front of her face. With an indignant sweep the woman threw her scarf around her neck and made a sound of displeasure. It was clear she would never be returning. What did Sophies father care about his reputation, or the money lost? Although he could certainly use it, it was uncertain whether this particular client would ever have paid her bill in the first place. His daughter, always lively and cheerful, looked defeated and wrapped in rags. He knocked carefully on her door, but there was no response. With a soft cough he tried to speak to her calmly. “Uh, Sophie, is everything all right in there?” He kept knocking a few more times, quietly and steadily. Suddenly he was startled by a couple of loud thuds that drowned out his gentle knocking. His heart pounded in his throat at the unexpected noise coming from downstairs in the atelier. “Sophie,” said her father, pointing his finger at her door to give himself a moment. “Under normal circumstances I would stay with you, however, something strange is happening down below,” he said, slowly descending the stairs. His eyes fell on the figure of a man in a dark cloak, who he recognized immediately, he had made that cloak himself.

“Both of you, get down here,” the intruder threatened, a crackling bolt of lightning striking the wooden banister.

“I’m already here, Peroska. Calm down,” Sophies father said, raising his hands. He was clearly unimpressed, his ex-wife had given him more than enough experience dealing with situations like this.

“What has that wretched daughter of yours done to my Lucas? He’s been infected with your pathetic little virus!”

Sophies father extinguished the sparks flashing around him and responded calmly. “What are you talking about?”

“Lucas is now just like you people, magicless. Tell me what that pest of a daughter of yours did to him.”

The rage became too much and took hold of Peroska entirely. A small ball formed in the middle of the atelier, no bigger than a blueberry, and exploded with a flash in the air. The dress forms, clothing racks, and cabinets full of rolls of thread and fabric collapsed under a wave of destruction that swept through the atelier.

Bolt after bolt leapt from Peroska’s fingertips. The fabrics that were struck immediately began to scorch like hot coals, followed by small curls of smoke. Peroska was so focused on his destruction that he had lost sight of Sophies father entirely, which gave her father the opportunity to strike the intruder full on the back of the head with a dress form.

Sophie watched from the staircase as the limbs of the dress form flew in every direction. Absolutely everything her father could lay his hands on, he hurled at Peroska. He was Lucas’s father and for Sophie nothing more than her stepfather, the intruder in their family and now their home. It seemed to be working. Spinning on his legs, Peroska tried to fight back but was given no chance to release his magic.

Sophie closed her eyes and tried to remember exactly what had happened with Lucas. This was her chance to save her father, the atelier, and all the garments she had worked so hard on. With a sigh she opened her eyes and stretched out her hand, fingers spread the way she had seen Lucas do it. To her frustration nothing happened, not even a breath of wind. She kept trying, bending her knees and making little jumps, without the slightest reaction.

“You haven’t heard the last of me!” Peroska said, as the arm of one of the dress forms kept striking him repeatedly on the head. His hat dented deeper with each blow. “And stay away from my Lucas!” He snatched his gloves quickly from the floor, received one more kick to the backside, and stormed out of the atelier.

Sophie felt a shiver run down her spine as her father cleared his throat and submerged the last scorched garment in a bucket of water.

“Well then, Sophie,” her father said, his gaze directed at the dresser she had been hiding behind. “I think a small explanation is in order.”

“Pa, I genuinely don’t know what happened! I’m just relieved that Lucas survived.”

“Your explanation doesn’t exactly improve the situation, Sophie,” her father said, his frown deepening.

“Pa, I think I have magic. Just like mama!” His face contracted with worry at the prospect of losing his daughter. Sophie noticed the change, stepped out from behind her hiding place, and leapt into her father’s arms. “I would never leave you. But now, with magic, maybe I could…”

Her father cut her off. “Can you please stop with these wild ideas of yours? Magic awakens at birth, and yours was quite some time ago.”

Both of them looked up when the door was knocked again. Sophies father sighed and stroked her hair. “What now,” he muttered before walking to the door. Sophie watched him hold the guards at bay, determined not to air their family matters publicly.

Sophies attention was drawn to a roll of fabric beside her. In the ash-covered dimness she spotted something gleaming. Dark blue sparks danced through the threads. She picked it up carefully, and a small electric shock made her flinch. This was the same as what had happened to Lucas, it wasn’t her magic, but the magic of the thread.

That night Sophie lay awake with the magical roll in her hands. Through experimentation she found that the current grew stronger the more pressure she applied. The light her tests filled the room with made her think of her mother. She would get no answers from her or from other mages, they kept their knowledge to themselves. Unraveling this secret lay entirely in her own hands. Frustrated, she picked up her scorched tunic and repaired it with the magical thread. By morning she was done.

“Well, someone’s an early riser,” Tristan said with a playful wink when he saw the tired Sophie approaching.

“This thread,” Sophie began, holding out the almost empty spool. “Do you have any more of it?”

Tristan moved to take a closer look at the spool, at which point Sophie pulled it back abruptly. After that night she felt connected to the thread and wasn’t ready to give it up. “Easy, I’m just glad to be rid of the things,” Tristan said lightly. He lifted the canvas of his cart and reached down to the bottom.

He pulled out five identical rolls and laid them before her.

“The mages who used it for their cloaks said their magic stopped working. They started accusing me of fraud and drove me out of the last town.”

Sophie shook her head lightly. “And you thought, let me just sell it to her then?”

Tristan laughed and shrugged. “Something like that.”

Sophie stared at him. It was clear she couldn’t bring herself to be angry. This thread was her key to magic, and on top of that it was another reason to see him. She reached for her coin purse and then realized she had no coins on her. Sophie gave him an apologetic look.

Tristan crossed his arms and observed her with amusement. “Chocolate addict…” he teased softly, knowing by now exactly where the money had gone.

“Can I pay you back later? It’s not as if people are lining up for these,” she answered, the money she had left over from yesterday had already been returned to her father.

Tristan looked at her for a moment, his eyes warm and gentle. “Fair enough. You could also trade them for the rolls I’d already set aside for you.”

“No, I still want those,” Sophie said quickly. Her hand shot up to her mouth, startled by her own hasty reaction.

Tristan glanced away from her. “What do you think about a trade for some handmade winter clothing?” he suggested in an almost inaudible voice, nearly shy.

Sophies heart gave a little leap. The thought of making something for him made her cheeks flush. She nodded quickly, her words clipped from pure nerves. “Okay.” She turned around quickly and walked away, casting one last glance back at Tristan, who stood with his hands in his hair looking at the remaining rolls.

Although she now had extra rolls of thread, these hadn’t yet absorbed any magic. With the remnant of the spool from her encounter with Peroska, Sophie began an experiment in her room. She made a glove, pulled it on, and pressed her fingers firmly together. With every snap it sparkled, proving it worked: the more force she applied, the larger the spark. But how could she direct that magic?

She tried it again and again, until the fingertips of the glove vanished in a blue mist and the thread literally evaporated from use. Although it wasn’t particularly practical, she could always grab someone and deliver a powerful shock. After repairing the glove with Tristan’s new cord, the old trick no longer worked. Sophies shoulders dropped. The only thing she still had was the charged thread in her tunic, which meant she would have to take everything apart. She tapped her fingers frustratedly against her stomach. To her surprise, small currents escaped with each tap, running directly from her tunic to the glove. An idea began taking shape in her head, one that just might work.

On her father’s worktable she opened his client ledgers, thick books containing the names and addresses of every mage who had ever bought something from them. Her father had told her he placed a small curl beside the names of those who had paid. She flipped quickly through the pages and felt her heart beat faster at the sight of what she had suspected: only a handful had paid to date, despite the atelier’s reputation. It seemed the mages believed they were operating for charity. Sophie knew her father could do nothing against them, given their overwhelming power, they could destroy him without hesitation if he said the wrong thing.

Sophie ran her finger along the names and stopped at the biggest non-payers. The grin that spread across her face sent her straight into action. She made a whole series of different bracelets, each containing exactly the same amount of thread. With these she would turn their own pride against them and make sure these mages paid as quickly as possible.

“Spiral Lane 37,” Sophie murmured and knocked on the front door.

“What do you want at this hour?” grumbled an old man, opening the door a crack. At the sight of Sophies innocent expression he pulled it fully open. He took the bracelet Sophie held out with some surprise. “Very finely made,” he said, lifting the glasses from around his neck and perching them on the tip of his nose.

“It’s a gift from our atelier, The Lateral Stitch, exclusively for the most powerful mages,” Sophie explained.

The old man rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the dimples in his cheeks pulling taut. “Ah yes, it doesn’t surprise me that even someone of your standing has heard of my unparalleled achievements.”

“Precisely, and it is exactly those achievements that we document for every mage. Our atelier now maintains a ranking,” Sophie continued, letting her finger drift toward the bracelet, which the mage was scrutinizing carefully. “With this we can determine exactly how far above the rest you stand. And I personally expect you to rank very highly indeed.”

His initially gruff manner slowly melted away and gave way to interest.

“There is only one small detail,” Sophie went on. “Only once the outstanding balance for your purchases with us has been settled in full can we add you to the ranking. But for a man of your standing that goes without saying, naturally. This is simply a barrier to separate the lesser from the truly powerful, something that really requires no further explanation in your case.”

The man coughed, blinked several times with exaggerated slowness, and said: “Of course, an excellent and entirely fair rule. But how exactly is this list compiled?”

“The idea is simple: wear the bracelet as often as possible. It measures your magical strength and will break at the fastening points when you put it on, the moment your power crosses a certain threshold. At that point it is important that you return to our atelier as soon as possible to have the measured values registered.”

“Quite right, that does indeed sound very logical,” the man said, though his expression made it perfectly clear he hadn’t entirely understood. “But who oversees all of this?”

“The grandmistress, naturally!” Sophie lied, with such conviction she almost believed it herself.

The man appeared to accept it. He selected a bracelet directly from the case Sophie had brought, gave a courteous bow, and closed the door behind him. Sophie could still hear him murmuring triumphantly: “A ranking, together with the grandmistress!”

Sophie visited several more addresses that evening with the same approach. It was therefore no surprise that by the following morning a number of clients were already waiting at the atelier door. And this time they hadn’t come for a new cloak.

“My sincere apologies for the late payment. Here, a little extra for the inconvenience.”

“Here’s a small tip for the beautiful cloak you made for me. I heard you also sell matching bracelets?”

Sophie jumped quickly between her father and the clients and displayed a selection of bracelets.

“What is this?” her father asked, indignant.

Sophie, just as skilled at twisting her words as she was her fabrics, managed to dismiss her father without letting a single detail of her plan show through.

Sophie carefully packed the warm garments she had made especially for Tristan into her satchel. Although it was only a small thing, she had to admit she had secretly been looking forward to this most of all. Her stomach was turning with nerves. Just one more street. And there she already saw him, sitting with his eyes closed, leaning against his cart.

She approached quietly, his calm breathing perceptible on her skin. He smelled of chocolates. When his eyes sprang open, Sophie stepped back. Although she often outwitted mages with ease, Tristan’s gaze had the power to freeze her on the spot.

“Here are your coins,” she managed, tensely.

“Ah, thank you… I think,” he said, a note of disappointment in his voice. For the first time she saw a flicker of uncertainty in him. Without counting the coins he stood up and took hold of a stack of tightly wound rolls of thread he had brought for her.

“These were quite difficult to get hold of.”

Before he could say another word, Sophie abruptly threw her heavy satchel at him, which landed with a thud against his stomach.

“What’s this for?” Tristan spluttered, feeling as if the last bit of air had been pressed from his lungs.

“Just a small thing,” Sophie said softly, her thumbs turning.

His hands quickly opened the satchel to reveal the warm winter clothing inside. Sophie swallowed nervously as Tristan pulled off his worn jacket somewhat too eagerly, revealing his pale skin beneath. He immediately pulled on the tunic, mittens, and hat and stared at the result in pure amazement. Then he took a look inside the coin purse anyway.

“Sophie, this is far too much!”

With everything that was about to happen, Sophie didn’t know if she would ever get another chance like this. She gathered all her courage, stepped forward, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Bye!” she said quickly, before he could answer, and fled with the received rolls tucked under her arm.

Her heart was pounding heavily, her whole body trembling with emotion. Only when she remembered what she still had to do was she able to concentrate again.

With the new thread she got straight to work. By day she threw herself into her creation, and in the quiet of the night she practiced her magic. She brought the threads together with care, allowing their colors and textures to blend perfectly, until what was taking shape before long resembled a train trailing from the back of a wedding dress. Golden rings and subtle accents completed the whole. The result was breathtaking, a dress that was both functional and enchanting, saturated with all the magic she had gathered. Dressed in her masterpiece, Sophie sat on the edge of her bed, her heart pounding in rhythm with the approaching footsteps. As expected, the heavy knocking came, followed by the sound of the door opening. Her unsuspecting father had been called away earlier, and knowing her mother’s explosive nature and everything Sophie had done, she knew her moment would come soon. Completely calm and composed she descended the stairs, her long dress flowing behind her. She gave a polite bow to the commander, who visibly lost his composure for just a moment, before he ordered her in sharp tones to come with him immediately.

Escorted by two guards who held her firmly by the arms, Sophie was led through the streets of the city. With the setting sun, the shadows of the tall buildings stretched out and made the atmosphere darker. This path led to the heart of the city, where her mother’s castle towered above everything. An imposing structure where the most magical and influential figure of the realm held sway.

The commander walked ahead, chin raised. Behind the doors a ceiling several meters high opened up, hung with chandeliers. A marble path led her forward, surrounded by curious onlookers on both sides. Mages and citizens had gathered to witness the spectacle. With a polite bow the guards left Sophie alone in the middle of the hall. The door closed with a thud behind her, as if the castle had already pronounced its verdict.

“Do you have any idea why you are standing before me?” a voice boomed from the far end of the room. “A fabricated ranking and the abuse of my name as grandmistress!” She recognized the voice immediately, her mother, on a raised throne, looking down on those present with contempt. The murmuring among the onlookers grew.

“Wasn’t it true that the atelier was supported by the grandmistress?” “That couldn’t possibly be… That’s a death sentence.” “If none of it was true, what were those bracelets for? And what does that mean for my ranking?” “I think she did it to get her money back.”

Sophie felt the eyes of the crowd on her.

“In years no one has had the audacity to drag my name through the mud like this,” her mother continued, rising from her throne. “Let alone a magicless nobody like you!” she said mockingly, grinning, convinced her daughter possessed not a single grain of power.

The bystanders stepped back as Sophie raised her hand. She snapped her fingers, but the new gloves were too loose and got in the way. A modest little spark crackled between her fingers, enough to draw nothing more than mocking laughter. Her mother, however, kept her gaze fixed and unmoving, her lips pressed tightly together. However small the spark, her eyes bored straight through Sophie. She was certain her daughter was magicless, just as she had always believed.

“Nothing but deception! She’s making fools of us all!” her mother shouted. The guards stormed toward her immediately. Without hesitating Sophie brought her hands together. An enormous amount of static energy filled the air, visible, tangible. A burst of magic swept through the room, so powerful the guards had to leap aside to avoid being struck. The explosion was far stronger than she had intended. Her mother pressed herself back into her throne as a powerful thunderclap struck directly above her head and pulverized the entire back wall of the building. Seeing the complete bewilderment on her mother’s face, it was Sophie who began to grin.

Where the great stained-glass windows had hung, there was now a mountain of shards. The wall decorations, statues, and artworks had been shattered or charred by the web of electricity that cut through the space. The crowd around Sophie was no longer laughing. They sank to their knees before her, as if a long-lost queen had finally come to claim her mother’s throne.

In the burst of magic Sophies gloves had literally been scorched to ash. Despite her attempts to quickly hide her hands, the truth was clear to her father, who had been watching from the crowd. Her hands and that remarkable dress left no room for doubt, no one other than his own daughter could have created such a masterpiece. He tried to run to her, but the crossed spears of the guards blocked his path. As he was pushed back to his place, he saw Sophie come face to face with her mother, his ex-wife.

The rigid expression on her mother’s face changed suddenly when Sophie embraced her, warmer and more loving than expected. Somewhat awkwardly her mother returned the embrace, patting her hands somewhat clumsily on Sophies back.

Sophies clothing began to glow with a dark blue light, as magic flowed in waves through her cloak and dress. Nobody in the hall could understand what was happening or realized that this mysterious stranger had been her daughter all along. Was this an attack or a magical spectacle? Whatever it was, everyone watched in awe. Small sparks crackled in every direction and spread through the room. The golden rings and embellishments in Sophies dress began to glow and seemed, together with the fabric, to charge themselves with all of her mother’s magic.

Sophie tightened the embrace a little more with each moment, just as she had done with Lucas. Her mother slowly faded in her arms. Only once every last thread of magic had been drawn fully into Sophies dress did she whisper softly into her mother’s ear: “Now we are finally equal. Soon we can be together as a family again.”