Leia returned to the scrap yard earlier than usual.
The yardmaster raised a brow. "You're back?"
"I left something yesterday," she replied.
He waved her off without care.
The rusted metal and broken panels that littered the yard shimmered with sunlight, like discarded stars. Leia didn't care about the scraps — not today. She had something to test.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the cloak.
Rough to the eye. Threadbare in places. But the inside lining was stitched with her new technique — a runic triple-thread mesh she'd designed after three nights of practice.
It wouldn't stop a blade.
But it could absorb a blow, distribute pressure, slow a fall.
She tossed the cloak over her shoulders and tied it snug at the collar. It felt like wearing resolve.
---
She didn't have to wait long for trouble.
Two older workers — welders from the upper lanes — strolled into the yard. One of them, broad-shouldered and cruel-eyed, stopped when he saw Leia.
"You're the one with the sewing trick, yeah?" he said, sneering.
Leia didn't answer.
The second man snorted. "Don't tell me the seamstress is pretending to be a warrior now."
Leia's hands twitched at her sides. The threads beneath her sleeves pulsed gently, sensing her rising tension.
"Just leave me alone," she said quietly.
The first man stepped closer. "Or what? You'll patch me to death?"
The other laughed.
Leia turned — not to run, but to position herself against a stack of crates. One thread trailed from her left wrist, looping behind her like a stray hair.
She felt it catch the wooden crate — and tighten.
The first man lunged, more out of mockery than anger.
Leia stepped sideways, pulling the thread taut.
He tripped — not dramatically, not like in stories — but just enough to lose his balance and slam shoulder-first into the crates.
He cursed, pushing himself up. "You—!"
Before he could finish, Leia lifted her arm. Two threads snapped forward, wrapping around a dangling metal pipe. She yanked it loose — it clanged down with enough force to startle them both.
The sound echoed.
It drew eyes.
The men backed off, muttering.
Not because she beat them.
But because they no longer understood her.
Leia stood silently, heart pounding, the cloak brushing her ankles.
---
She spent the rest of the day practicing behind the boiler stacks — running, rolling, falling deliberately to test the cloak's balance. Each time, the lining softened the landing. The hem shifted weight like a second spine.
Her hands moved faster now, her thread reacting to intention more than force. She realized that the quieter she became, the more clearly the thread listened.
---
That night, as she patched a hole in Selene's blanket, her mother watched her work with a small smile.
"You're getting faster," Selene said softly.
Leia nodded. "I tried something today. Something new."
Selene raised a brow. "And?"
"I didn't win. But I didn't lose either."
There was pride in her voice, quiet and real.
---
Before bed, Leia unrolled a strip of cloth and stitched a symbol into the corner — her mark. The needle and thread, but now with a second line — looping below like an unfinished spiral.
Not an upgrade yet. But a promise to herself.
She folded the cloth and set it beside her pallet.
For now, she was still mocked.
Still small.
But she had something no one else did: intention backed by action.
And that — she was learning — was how legends began.