Seri Threadweaver grew up learning to sew the way some children learn to sharpen knives: patiently, precisely, and with the vague sense that it might save her life someday. The alleys of Westgate taught her to move quietly. The shadows of Neverwinter taught her to move purposefully. Mask, the Lord of Hidden Things, taught her nothing directly—but His presence has a way of lingering around people who refuse to lie to themselves. Threadweaver’s Atelier is tucked along Quiet Lane, a street named more for its vanished inhabitants than for any actual serenity. The shop’s sign is a simple panel of polished obsidian, engraved with a needle and thread so fine they seem to vanish when looked at directly. Customers swear the door does not exist until they mean to find it. Inside, silence settles like velvet. Seri’s garments hang from silver hooks suspended by invisible threadwork. Every robe, cloak, and tailored garment carries intricate stitch patterns that shift subtly when viewed from the corner of the eye. Some redirect sound; others scatter silhouettes; a few have pockets that open into spaces where even light hesitates. Seri calls these ‘practical embellishments.’ Adventurers call them ‘lifesavers.’ Thieves call them ‘tempting.’ Seri learned her craft from scattered mentors—illusionists who wove light into silk, rogues who taught her that clothing can be armor in more ways than one, and a retired Harper agent who showed her the value of truth even when it puts a target on your back. Seri absorbed it all, filtered it, and created something uniquely hers: garments that obey no tradition except precision. She keeps a small shrine to Mask in a locked workroom, though she refuses to consider herself a devotee. Their relationship is more complicated—admiration without obedience, respect without servitude. Mask’s shadows curl around her stitching table on certain nights, not guiding her hands but watching, as if curious what she will create next. Seri’s customers range from mages seeking robes that won’t ignite during spellcasting, to spies needing cloaks that slip past scrying, to nobles who enjoy the thrill of wearing something dangerous. She turns away those who want her craft for cruelty, but welcomes anyone who has a purpose worth clothing. Rumors say the shadows in her shop move with independent will. Others claim that Threadweaver’s Atelier is anchored to the city by threads only she can see, ready to vanish should she ever choose to walk away. Seri never comments on such stories. She simply takes measurements, asks quiet questions, and listens closely to the truth people hide in their posture. In a city rebuilding its identity, Seri offers more than clothing. She offers confidence wrapped in silk, secrets sewn into hems, and a quiet reminder: power does not always come from being seen. Sometimes it comes from knowing precisely when not to be.