The final round ended.

The arguments did not.

Which was apparently normal.

Nobody informed Seraphina beforehand.

A designer accused another designer of copying a collar.

A noblewoman accused a designer of insulting her family through stitching.

Two merchants started debating sleeve economics.

Nobody knew what sleeve economics were.

The debate became physical.

Not violent.

Just aggressively educational.

Seraphina watched everything.

Then nodded.

"Fashion is basically war."

Kael immediately disagreed.

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

She pointed toward the arguing designers.

"Look."

One of them was waving a measuring tape like a weapon.

Kael decided not to continue the discussion.

Leaving the competition proved impossible.

Every hallway contained people.

Every corner contained people.

Every room contained people.

Most of them wanted something.

Advice.

Opinions.

Validation.

Autographs.

One apprentice actually asked for fabric-blessing.

Nobody knew what that meant.

Including the apprentice.

By the time they escaped the building, the sun was already setting.

Daren stretched.

"My head hurts."

"Mine too."

Rowan rubbed his temples.

"Mine three."

Kael looked confused.

"Mine three?"

"Mine hurts enough for three people."

"Fair."

Very fair.

Seraphina walked ahead.

Suspiciously quiet.

Again.

A dangerous sign.

The city lights reflected in her eyes.

The Fashion District remained alive even at night.

Designers still worked.

Tailors still stitched.

Merchants still negotiated.

Everything moved.

Everything grew.

And for the first time—

Seraphina realized she had become part of it.

Then she ruined the moment.

"Started from the inn now we’re here~"

The street froze.

Daren immediately started laughing.

Rowan looked confused.

Kael looked tired.

A passing merchant nearly walked into a cart.

Seraphina continued confidently.

"Started from the inn now my sleeves cause fear~"

Nobody understood.

Not even her.

But she seemed committed.

"Aina."

"What?"

"Stop."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

The song became worse.

Back at the inn—

The common room was crowded.

Again.

A recurring nightmare.

The moment Seraphina entered, people noticed.

Immediately.

Too immediately.

One noblewoman stood.

A merchant waved.

Three apprentices nearly tripped over each other.

The innkeeper looked exhausted.

He pointed at Seraphina.

"This is your fault."

"A baseless accusation."

The crowd got bigger.

A terrible sign.

Rowan quietly moved toward the stairs.

A strategic retreat.

A wise retreat.

A retreat that failed.

"Rowan."

The merchant froze.

Seraphina smiled.

Never a good sign.

"How old is Daren?"

Silence.

Daren blinked.

"What."

"Your age."

"Why."

"Research."

"That’s not research."

"It is if I write it down."

She produced a notebook.

Nobody knew where it came from.

Nobody asked.

Experience had taught them not to.

Daren sighed.

"Twenty-two."

Seraphina stared.

Then stared harder.

Then dramatically pointed.

"Impossible."

Daren looked offended.

"What do you mean impossible?"

"You act fourteen."

The room exploded.

Several apprentices laughed.

A merchant choked on tea.

Atlas woke up.

Tax stole a spoon.

Normal evening.

Daren pointed back.

"You’re younger than me."

"Emotionally I’m immortal."

"That’s not a thing."

"It is now."

Rowan immediately left.

A survival instinct.

A good one.

Later that night—

The inn finally quieted.

Most customers left.

Most conversations died.

Most disasters ended.

Most.

Not all.

Because Seraphina had discovered paper.

Again.

She sat at a table.

Writing.

Drawing.

Scheming.

Kael watched from across the room.

Suspicious.

Reasonably suspicious.

"Aina."

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

A lie.

A catastrophic lie.

The table contained:

Three letters.

Seven sketches.

Two political cartoons.

A drawing of Atlas wearing a crown.

And a very detailed illustration of a noble drowning in paperwork.

Kael pointed.

"You are clearly doing something."

Seraphina nodded.

"Fine."

Then she held up a letter proudly.

"Family update."

Far away—

Inside the Valois estate—

A black crow landed on a windowsill.

Tax looked around.

Stole a cookie.

Dropped a letter.

Left.

The entire operation lasted six seconds.

Professional.

Terrifying.

Lord Valois stared at the envelope.

Lady Valois stared at the envelope.

Neither moved.

They had learned caution.

The hard way.

Finally—

Lady Valois opened it.

The first line read:

«Dear Mother and Father,

Good news.

I have become fashion famous.»

Silence.

She continued reading.

«Bad news.

I may accidentally become more famous.»

Lord Valois immediately developed a headache.

---

Further down:

«Atlas is healthy.

Tax remains criminal.

Kael still sighs too much.

I am fixing society.

You’re welcome.»

---

Lady Valois laughed.

Lord Valois looked toward the ceiling.

"At least she’s alive."

"That is your conclusion?"

"After raising her?"

«Yes."»

Fair.

Very fair.

Elsewhere—

Another black crow landed.

Another letter arrived.

This one reached Evelyne.

Evelyne opened it cautiously.

The first sentence nearly killed her.

«Dear Evelyne,

I have become a fashion icon.»

Evelyne lowered the letter.

Then raised it again.

Maybe she read it wrong.

No.

The sentence remained.

A tragedy.

Further down:

«I insulted nobles through clothing.

They applauded.

Society is healing.»

Evelyne laughed so hard she nearly fell from her chair.

Back in the city—

Seraphina finished another letter.

Then another.

Then another.

She seemed happier afterward.

Lighter.

More relaxed.

Kael noticed.

But said nothing.

Outside—

The city slept.

The Fashion District celebrated.

Rumors spread.

Names spread.

Stories spread.

And somewhere among them—

One title appeared more often than before.

The Villainess Designer.

Meanwhile—

A certain merchant named Rowan sat near a window.

Unable to sleep.

Again.

The Valemont key rested on the table.

The mystery waited.

The road waited.

Golden Nest waited.

Everything waited.

Yet somehow—

His departure felt farther away than ever.

A knock interrupted his thoughts.

Daren entered.

Holding bread.

Of course.

Always bread.

"You leaving tomorrow?"

Daren asked.

Rowan looked at the key.

Then toward the city lights.

Then toward the distant glow of the Fashion District.

Finally—

He laughed softly.

The answer surprised even him.

"I don’t know."

And for the first time—

That uncertainty didn’t bother him.

Which was probably the real problem.

Daren dropped into the chair opposite Rowan.

The bread remained in his hand.

Half-eaten.

Abandoned.

A historic event.

The bread looked concerned.

Rowan noticed immediately.

"You’re serious."

"Unfortunately."

Daren leaned back.

For several seconds neither spoke.

The inn had finally gone quiet.

No screaming customers.

No fashion emergencies.

No noblewomen demanding sleeve consultation.

Peace.

Temporary peace.

The dangerous kind.

Eventually Daren looked toward the ceiling.

"You know what’s annoying?"

Rowan immediately regretted the question.

"What?"

"I thought finding a goal would be dramatic."

Silence.

Then:

"It isn’t."

The answer came too quickly.

Too honestly.

Rowan understood immediately.

Daren laughed weakly.

"I kept expecting some grand revelation."

He waved vaguely.

"A sign."

"A destiny."

"A magical bird."

Tax crashed into the window outside.

Stole a decorative ribbon.

Vanished.

The timing was unfortunate.

Rowan ignored it.

Professionally.

Daren pointed.

"See?"

"That’s not destiny."

"I don’t know anymore."

For a while they simply sat there.

The city lights flickered outside.

Carriages rolled through distant streets.

Somewhere in the Fashion District—

People were probably still arguing.

Fashion apparently never slept.

A terrifying discovery.

Daren eventually spoke again.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"No."

"I think she’s actually going to do it."

That earned Rowan’s attention.

Not because he disagreed.

Because he knew exactly who Daren meant.

Seraphina.

The fashion empire.

The ridiculous dream.

The impossible goal.

The thing that should have sounded absurd.

And somehow didn’t anymore.

Rowan looked out the window.

Toward the distant district.

Toward the lights.

Toward the place she’d accidentally conquered in less than a week.

Then he nodded.

"Probably."

A simple answer.

An honest one.

Daren laughed.

"That’s insane."

"Yes."

"Completely unreasonable."

"Yes."

"Statistically impossible."

"Probably."

Another pause.

Then:

"I think she’ll do it anyway."

Rowan smiled.

Small.

But real.

"Me too."

Meanwhile—

Several streets away—

A young apprentice designer sat alone in a workshop.

Surrounded by sketches.

Discarded ideas.

Fabric scraps.

Failures.

Lots of failures.

The normal environment of a creative person.

He stared at one particular drawing.

Then another.

Then another.

None felt right.

None felt alive.

Eventually he sighed.

Opened a notebook.

And wrote something.

A single sentence.

One he’d heard earlier that day.

Make people feel something.

The apprentice stared at it.

Longer than expected.

Then slowly returned to drawing.

Not copying.

Thinking.

For the first time.

Elsewhere—

Inside another workshop—

A veteran tailor was doing exactly the same thing.

Though he’d never admit it.

Across the district—

More conversations happened.

Not about trends.

Not about sales.

Not about status.

Ideas.

People discussed ideas.

Which was new.

Very new.

And slightly terrifying.

Because one person had walked into an established system.

And accidentally changed the conversation.

Back at the inn—

Seraphina remained awake.

Naturally.

A pile of papers surrounded her.

Letters.

Sketches.

Notes.

Plans.

Half-finished concepts.

Entirely finished disasters.

Atlas slept nearby.

Tax had returned.

Nobody knew from where.

Or what crimes he’d committed.

The crow appeared satisfied.

Which worried everyone.

Seraphina tapped a pencil against the table.

Thinking.

Actually thinking.

Not scheming.

Not joking.

Thinking.

Then she suddenly stood.

The chair nearly died.

Kael looked up immediately.

"Aina."

"No."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You were about to."

A fair point.

She began pacing.

Slowly.

Then faster.

Then dramatically.

"Aina."

"What?"

"Why are you walking like a villain?"

"I am a villain."

"No."

"Fashion villain."

"Still no."

She ignored him.

Which was expected.

Then stopped suddenly.

Which was not.

Her eyes widened.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

"I need apprentices."

Silence.

Kael stared.

Atlas snored.

Tax stole a button.

Reality continued.

"You what?"

"I need apprentices."

"You have customers."

"Customers are temporary."

She pointed dramatically.

"Minions are forever."

Kael covered his face.

"Those are not the same thing."

"They absolutely are."

"No."

"Yes."

Several seconds passed.

Then:

"You are building a business."

The words surprised her.

Just slightly.

Because for the first time—

Someone had said it plainly.

Not a dream.

Not a future possibility.

Not a joke.

A business.

Something real.

Seraphina looked down at the scattered papers.

The sketches.

The notes.

The growing pile of requests.

The people asking questions.

The people wanting advice.

The people listening.

Something warm settled in her chest.

Strange.

Unfamiliar.

Comfortable.

Then she ruined the moment.

Immediately.

"I shall become a capitalist menace."

Kael stood up.

"I’m going to sleep."

"A coward’s strategy."

"A successful strategy."

He left.

The room became quiet again.