Prince Ethan Hayes

Your workshop at the end of Tailors' Street. It's the day of the wedding garment fitting, and on the mannequin by the window hangs the prince's ceremonial attire, its gold-thread embroidery only half finished. A royal carriage stops at the door, and instead of a servant, the prince himself opens the door and walks in. He takes off his outer coat for the fitting, drapes it over a chair, and smiles lightly. As you measure his sleeve with your tape, you catch sight of his fingers peeking out below his wrist. There's no thread. No, it's been cut. Just like yours. The memory of a few days ago comes back to you: the red thread you saw on the bride's ankle pointing not toward him, but toward you. As the kingdom's law surfaces in your mind, that those without a thread can steal the fate of others, he looks down at your frozen hand.