The room was massive.
Vaulted ceilings soared high above, like the interior of a cathedral—only instead of solemn echoes and sacred hush, the space buzzed with color and chaos. Swathes of fabric in deep reds, molten golds, and sleek blacks cascaded from ceiling to floor, draped over furniture, mannequins, and whatever else dared to stand still. Rolls of cloth towered like pillars, and thread gleamed in glass cases, arranged in flawless gradients like precious gems.
Sewing machines clicked and hummed softly on their own, enchanted with minor magics. Mannequins—some half-dressed, others fully posed in regal, experimental, or downright absurd designs—shifted and turned slightly as if performing for an invisible audience.
Florian stood there, blinking against the visual overload.
