The throne room of Cleavendale was basking in golden morning light. Stained-gss windows cast prismatic hues across marbled tiles and long velvety rugs. The banners of needle and thread, the heraldic symbols of fashion and magic, swayed zily in the breeze from enchanted vents.

  Queen Euphemia Thimblecrown sat perched on her throne like a woman carved from old ce and stricter habits. She wore a colr so high and stiff it could deflect a sp. Her expression conveyed that she rather wished someone would try.

  Beside her, lounging in a less rigid chair, was Princess Carmel—still young, but already sharp-eyed, graceful, and far too clever for her age. A small stack of enchanted ink-scrolls flickered beside her as she took down notes with a levitating quill.

  A tailor was finishing his seventh petition of the morning about the proper hem-lengths for ceremonial aprons.

  "...and so, Your Majesty," the man said, adjusting his monocle, "if we continue allowing the third hemline to brush the cobble without magical reinforcement, we risk the ankle integrity of every milkmaid in the capital."

  Queen Euphemia sighed. "Noted. Write up a full proposal for the Department of Functional Attire."

  A scribe scribbled.

  Then, it began.

  First a low hum. Almost imperceptible. Then golden threads of light curled from the air itself, spiraling into the center of the hall like strands being plucked from invisible looms.

  "What in the..." Carmel sat up.

  The royal guards stepped forward. Bdes drawn. Spells forming at their fingertips.

  The threads gathered, faster now, swirling into a humanoid form—a towering, translucent figure woven from hardlight and golden stitchwork, ten feet tall and softly glowing. Inside its chest, no bigger than a wine cork, stood a figure—a Lillikith, no more than three inches high, regal in posture, wearing a crown of thornbone and a red mantle.

  Gasps echoed around the chamber. Magic fred.

  "GUARDS!" Queen Euphemia bellowed, leaping to her feet. "Strike it down!"

  The Titan raised both hands in peace.

  "Please," the tiny voice echoed from its chest, magnified and clear. "Hear me. Forgive the dramatic intrusion, but I—King Needlenook—on behalf of the unified tribes of the Lillikith, have come to ask you, eye to eye, for sanctuary."

  The guards hesitated, bdes half-drawn, spells coiled in the air.

  Then came the voice of the Princess. Calm. Sharp. Commanding.

  "Mother, wait."

  Queen Euphemia blinked. "Carmel?"

  The Princess stood, setting her scrolls aside.

  "He’s not here to attack. If he were, he’d have struck already. This—whatever it is—is a projection, not a weapon. He’s using ancient spell-thread magic, probably bound into his outer fabric. And he’s here as a king... to speak."

  Euphemia scowled. "But he’s a—"

  "A ruler of a people you’ve ignored, perhaps," Carmel said, gaze locked on the Titan’s woven eyes. "Let’s see where this goes."

  The Queen slowly, reluctantly, raised a hand. The guards stood down.

  Needlenook’s Titan construct gave a low hum of relief.

  The King began to expin, but time was short...