In the fog-laced streets of Morvain, there was a tailor who worked with a cloth no one else dared to touch. His name was Emric Dusk, and his shop—The Silver Needle—was always open, though few entered willingly.
The fabric he used was called Weaver’s Silence, a material spun from threads that absorbed sound. A coat made from it could swallow a scream before it left the lips. A dress could muffle footsteps so completely the wearer seemed to glide like a ghost.
But the cloth had a hunger.
One evening, a noblewoman named Lady Celine commissioned a gown from Emric, desperate to escape the echoes of her husband’s violent temper. When she wore it to a grand ball, the fabric drank in every harsh word, every threat, leaving her in perfect quiet. By midnight, her husband’s voice had grown hoarse from shouting unheard. By dawn, he had vanished entirely—his last words lost to the threads.
At first, Celine was relieved. But then she noticed the gown growing heavier. The hem darkened, as if stained by whispers. And when she tried to remove it, the seams wouldn’t part.
Emric watched from his shop window as she returned, her steps soundless, her mouth moving in silent pleas. He simply shook his head.
"The threads take what they’re fed," he said. "And you’ve given them a feast."
Now, if you pass The Silver Needle on a windless night, you might see a shadow in the window—a figure clad in a dress that drinks the air around it, standing perfectly, terribly still.
And if you listen too closely, you might realize you can’t hear your own breath anymore.