Chapter Text
The spindle fell down, still unfinished the gown,
The golden thread stretched out to thrive, spinning the cocoon for the butterfly's dive.
The snow never ceased in Aidonia. It fell in silence, veiling the palace spires and courtyards in a hush as soft as mourning. Within these walls, time itself seemed to freeze - each day a mirror of the last, each night a hush of white and shadow.
Castorice moved through the corridors like a rumor, her presence announced only by the faintest whisper of silk and the wary glances of those who passed. Her gloves were immaculate, her posture unyielding, her gaze cold as the icicles that hung from the eaves. She was the Holy Maiden, the kingdom’s solace and its curse, and she wore both titles with the weary dignity of one who had never known another life.
Today, the air in the palace was different - charged, expectant. Servants whispered of the seamstress from distant lands, summoned by royal decree to craft a gown worthy of winter’s own daughter. Castorice paid them no mind.
The throne room was a cathedral of frost, columns gleaming like frozen rivers. At its center stood a woman.
She was a vision in white and gold, her hair shining like the promise of spring, her eyes a dull blue-green, like sea glass weathered by time and shadow. She stood with the composure of someone who had never known fear of cold or court.
Castorice halted at the threshold, every muscle taut. She had not expected beauty to be so… unsettling.
The courtiers and attendants, arrayed like pale ghosts along the walls, fell silent as she entered. Their eyes flickered between the Holy Maiden and the foreign seamstress, hungry for spectacle, for scandal, for any fracture in the palace’s frozen veneer.
The seamstress inclined her head in a graceful bow - not to the throne, but directly to Castorice. The gesture was simple, yet it carried a weight that rippled through the room. Castorice felt the unseeing gaze settle on her like a mantle - measured, unyielding, and strangely unafraid.
She braced herself, expecting the usual distance, the careful bows and reverent words that kept others safely at arm’s length. But the seamstress stepped forward, closing the space between them with a deliberate calm that silenced even the falling snow.
“Your Highness,” the seamstress murmured, her voice low and clear, carrying in the stillness. The sound was soft but unwavering, a thread of warmth in the cold cathedral.
Then, with a grace that drew every eye, she reached for the Holy Maiden's gloved hand.
Time fractured.
Castorice’s breath caught, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm beneath her ribs. No one had touched her since she was a child - not since the whispers began, not since she learned that her hands were not her own.
The seamstress’s fingers were gentle, steady - warm through the barrier of silk. For a moment, Castorice could neither move nor breathe. The world narrowed to the sensation of lips - soft, deliberate - pressing against her glove.
A ripple ran through the court: a collective gasp, a sharp intake of breath, the shiver of scandal. Castorice felt it all - a storm at her back - but she could not tear her gaze from the seamstress’s face.
The woman straightened, her expression composed, serene as moonlight on snow. For a heartbeat, Castorice thought she saw something flicker in those muted blue-greens - a glimmer of amusement, or perhaps a challenge.
Panic surged, cold and absolute.
She wrenched her hand away as if burned, her voice slicing through the silence with a force that startled even herself.
“Are you mad?” she hissed, brittle as shattered ice. “Do you not know what they say of me? Do you wish to tempt fate for the sake of spectacle?”
Her words rang too loud, too raw - the Holy Maiden wasn't one to raise her voice. She hated the tremor she could not quite suppress. Beneath her anger was something even rawer, older - a terror that she might, with one careless moment, bring ruin to a stranger who had not yet learned to fear her.
The seamstress inclined her head, unruffled.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. Old habits die hard.”
The courtiers began to murmur - soft, urgent whispers like the wind before a blizzard. Castorice’s cheeks burned beneath her composure. She turned sharply away, spine rigid, every nerve alight with confusion and something she could not name.
She told herself it was anger. It must be.
The chamberlain’s voice rose once more, steady and formal, slicing through the murmurs like a blade.
“Your Highness, the court awaits your presence for the formal introductions and the blessing of the gown.”
Castorice inclined her head, her movements precise and controlled. The faint echo of the seamstress’s touch lingered, but she buried it beneath layers of caution and resolve. There was no room for weakness here - not in the eyes of the court, nor within her own guarded heart.
The seamstress stepped back with quiet dignity, her gaze never faltering. The courtiers’ eyes flicked between the two women, a silent contest of wills unfolding beneath the glittering chandeliers.
The chamberlain gestured grandly. “This is Lady Aglaea, the Goldweaver of Okhema, summoned from distant lands to craft a gown worthy of our Holy Maiden. May her skill honor the sacred duty you bear.”
Whispers rippled through the hall - some admiring, others skeptical, all charged with expectation. Castorice’s gaze sharpened, appraising the foreign woman anew. Titles carried weight, but actions were far louder.
“The blessing of the gown will commence once the design is approved by Your Highness,” the chamberlain continued.
Castorice’s voice was clipped, unyielding. “Proceed.”
The Goldweaver presented her designs with practiced grace - fabrics spun from shadow and light, threads shimmering like woven starlight. Castorice observed with a critical eye, her mind guarded, thoughts encased in ice.
Throughout the ceremony, the court’s whispers ebbed and flowed like restless tides. Some praised the Goldweaver’s boldness; others muttered of folly, of tempting fate by crossing the Holy Maiden’s path. Castorice felt their judgment keenly but did not waver.
When the formalities drew to a close, the Goldweaver approached once more, voice low and respectful.
“Your Highness, I seek only to honor your burden through my craft.”
Castorice’s eyes flickered steel. “Trust is earned, not given.”
The Goldweaver inclined her head, unshaken. “Then I shall prove myself worthy.”
As the court dispersed, Castorice retreated to the solitude of her chambers. The snow pressed cold against the windows, mirroring the chill she kept tightly bound within. The memory of the touch lingered - not as warmth, but as a challenge, a question she had no answer to.
She pressed her gloved hands together, steadying the tremor she refused to acknowledge. The walls around her heart remained unyielding, the ice unbroken.
Outside, the snow fell on, indifferent and eternal.