Tailor

"There, perfect and presentable."

The old shopkeeper stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his handiwork.

Before him, an all-white mannequin stood adorned in the latest fashion trends sought after by middle-class citizens across the Empire. Amber moonlight streamed through the shop's broad windows, casting elongated shadows across the dark timber floorboards.

His fingers grazed the waistcoat and black trousers draped over the mannequin. Business had been rough lately. Ever since the dragon array in Boreal had been disrupted, his shipments could no longer be teleported on time to meet demand. Every merchant in the city had suffered, and he had been no exception.

But now, with things returning to normal, he was ready to open his doors again—ready to hear the comforting clink of coins in his till.

A small creak echoed behind him.

"Now then, where is that girl?"

He turned, expecting to find his assistant.

Instead, his breath hitched.

Thud!

The mannequin crashed to the ground, a tangled mess of fine fabric and shattered plastic pieces.

His stomach twisted. He had spent the better part of an hour perfecting that display, and now it was ruined. But worse than that - standing behind him was a young boy, barely more than a shadow in the dim light.

The shopkeeper's brow furrowed. How had he entered without making a sound?

"Listen, kid, I'll give you five seconds to leave before I call the guards!" His aged fingers instinctively shot forward, aiming to poke at the boys chest.

His hand met something solid.Not cloth nor bone,

But muscle.

A slow, creeping realization spread through him like ice water. His breath slowed. His fingers froze mid-motion, suddenly feeling frail and Breakable.

"Remove. Your. Finger."

The words were calm but carried that same sharp and dangerous air he had heard many times before.

The boy's voice slithered through the shop, carrying the weight of something vast and powerful. It was like boiling water meeting an ice bath, a contradiction so unnatural it unsettled the soul.

"D-Dreamweaver."

The shopkeeper yanked his hand back as though he had touched fire.

'A Dreamweaver!'

A noble could ruin a man's life but a Dreamweaver could end it with a thought.

Even the Empire's aristocracy who had not awakened had to fear them.

He swallowed hard, lowering his head in a practiced bow. "There's been a grave misunderstanding, my lord. I sincerely apologize - please, take no offense from my actions."

There was no room for excuses. Dreamweavers did not tolerate insult, and they were under no obligation to spare a merchant's life. This was not a society built on wealth or fairness but clear and unforgiving power.

Commoners needed the Dreamweavers and nobles for protection.

But the opposite was not entirely true.

Commoners were simply… expendable.

But then, rather than lashing out, the boy - no, the Dreamweaver - reached into his robe. A moment later, a heavy sack of gold and silver was pressed into the old man's trembling hands. The coins gleamed under the moonlight, catching the dim glow of the shop's lanterns.

"I don't need much," the boy - Cypher - said. "Just something that won't offend the Aristocracy."

The merchant barely contained his sigh of relief. So He's not here to kill me.

"L-Lord, thank you for your kindness! I'll assist you immediately. What is the occasion?" Years of experience took over, smoothing his voice into a steady, professional tone.

Cypher nodded, reaching up to unclasp his robe. The fabric slid off his shoulders, revealing an all-black ensemble underneath - a silk shirt and pants, fitting snugly against his frame. He handed the discarded robe to the merchant without ceremony.

"I'm attending the Emperor's ball tonight," Cypher said flatly. "Since I'm not from a noble family, I don't want to stand out too much. But if it helps, I like white."

"Ahh, I see."

The old man's mind shifted into motion, already sketching designs in his head. Practical and elegant. Something refined, but not ostentatious.

He pulled a sheet of parchment from the counter and quickly began scribbling rough outlines. Occasionally, his eyes flickered up to Cypher, gauging his posture, his frame and his presence.

"A gentlemanly yet practical design. Perhaps a high-collared coat, no hood - modest silver accents should work nicely. Yes, I think you have excellent taste, my lord."

He turned the sketch toward Cypher, who gave a curt nod of approval.

Satisfied, the old man tucked the parchment away and turned toward the back of the shop.

"CLARESSE!"

A moment passed. Then -

Crash!

The unmistakable sound of someone tumbling down a staircase rattled the shop.

A groan followed.

Then, after a long pause, the door to the back room creaked open, revealing a teenage girl with a dazed expression. She looked to be about Cypher's age - at least, physically - but something about him seemed… older and more distant.

Strikingly orange hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and a simple yellow dress clung to her form as she tried - and failed - to compose herself.

Her eyes landed on the bloodied robe in the merchant's hands.

Then, slowly, her gaze drifted to Cypher. Her face paled.

A soft, barely contained squeak escaped her lips.

The shopkeeper exhaled sharply through his nose, "Dammit, girl! Can't you see we have an important guest?"

Clarisse flinched at the chastisement, lowering her head like a scolded puppy.

The old man turned back to Cypher, already preparing another round of apologies. "I deeply regret this, my lord. She's new, you see - "

"It's fine. Get on with it."

Cypher's voice was sharp yet unbothered.

The merchant did not argue. He simply nodded and moved to gather the required materials.

The sooner this was done, the better.

"Clarisse, keep this gentleman company while I finish his request."

"M-me?"

"Yes, you." The door to the backroom shut, followed by the groaning of stairs as the merchant made his way to the top floor.

Now, it was just Clarisse and Cypher.

Alone in silence.

She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, searching for something, anything, to break the suffocating quiet.

"S-so, my lord, have you ever killed someone?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. As soon as she realized, she waved her hands frantically, "P-please ignore me—"

"You have very pretty hair."

Clarisse froze. The store suddenly felt that much colder.

Cypher's voice was soft, almost admiring. But his eyes, they were like ice.

He stepped forward, fingers carefully brushing a loose strand from her face. A bead of sweat slid down her temple as he did so.

"I've only ever seen such colors on nobles. But it's silly, right? Tell me… you're not a noble, are you?"

Her breath caught. The chill of his touch sent an shiver down her spine.

"N-no, sir," she stammered. "My family is from Boreal. I immigrated to Thorn for work."

Cypher's fingers slid lower, resting on her shoulder. His grip tightened.

"Such a strong constitution," he murmured. "Forgive me for asking, Clarisse, but… have you ever killed someone?"

Her entire body tensed. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

"Please, sir. I've never killed anyone. I- I would never hurt anyone."

"Heh,"

Cypher's fingers lifted abruptly. He chuckled, pushing his own hair from his forehead, silver strands parting to reveal his full gaze,

"I'm just kidding, 'Clarisse'. No need to be afraid."

"R-right! Of course you are!" She forced a nervous laugh. She did not feel at ease. Not at all.

Footsteps echoed from the stairwell, and the backroom door creaked open.

The merchant stepped forward, carrying a folded outfit ,"Your request is finished, sir. Feel free to take a look."