The next morning, whispers clung to the alley walls like early fog.
"She didn't fall."
"I heard the baker's boy hit her with a full strike."
"No bruise. Just stood there. Like a wall."
Leia didn't hear them directly. But Snip did.
And so did others.
---
At the scrapyard, while searching for more lining fabric, Leia caught two boys arguing in hushed tones.
"She stitched runes into cloth. I swear it's forbidden stuff."
"That's just stories. Powers don't come from needles."
"She stopped a D-rank with a cloak. If that's not power, I don't know what is."
Leia turned away quickly.
She didn't want attention. Not now. Not yet.
But attention was already coming.
---
Later that afternoon, she stepped into the quieter side of the merchant road, looking for brass buckles. She preferred the old ones — the ones with history and cracks that could hold enchantment lines.
That was when she felt it.
Someone watching her.
Not just curious stares or gossiping glances. This was colder. Measured.
She turned sharply.
Just shadows. An old man sweeping.
But something didn't sit right.
She left quickly.
---
Back in the shed, Leia sank onto the mat, the cloak folded beside her.
It shimmered faintly, the shoulder rune still warm from the previous day's strike.
She placed her hand on the center of it.
A soft pulse — the cloak still bonded.
But… not without cost.
Her fingers were sore. Her chest still bruised, even if the cloak had taken the worst of it.
When she pushed the cloak too hard, it pushed back.
The connection wasn't endless.
Emotional bonds gave it life, yes—but also limits.
She couldn't just wear her magic.
She had to earn it.
---
That evening, she sat with her mother outside the house. The sky was burning orange, the edges of clouds dipped in dusk.
Selene watched her daughter silently.
"You're tired," she said gently.
Leia didn't lie. "Yes."
"You've done something… important, haven't you?"
Leia nodded.
Selene smiled, slow and soft. "Then rest, child. Even miracles need sleep."
---
In the far edge of the outer district, under a slanted roof where no lanterns burned, the man in the black coat leaned against the alley's brick wall.
He lit a match, the brief flame reflecting in his eyes.
Beside him, a boy whispered, "She's just a girl."
"Girls grow up," the man replied.
He dropped the match.
"She's sewing strength into silence. That's dangerous."
He stepped back into the dark.
---
That night, Leia dreamed.
Not of the cloak.
Not of her family.
But of thread.
Thread moving through an endless sky.
Thread stitching stars together.
And her fingers guiding it.