The spacious hall room Isabella prepared was bright and warm, with sunlight spilling in from the large stone windows.
Several wooden tables stood neatly together, and woven baskets filled with tools, threads, and clean materials were stacked carefully around the edges.
A faint herbal sll lingered in the air, mixed with the clean scent of crushed plant fibers.
One by one, the village won stepped inside.
Their eyes widened instantly.
"Ah!" soone gasped softly.
"What is all this?"
"Isabella... these things look so strange."
The won hovered at the entrance at first, afraid to touch anything. Even the young girls clung to their mothers’ skirts, their big eyes shining with curiosity. They whispered among themselves, but their voices were soft, full of awe rather than fear.
Isabella clapped her hands lightly and smiled. "Don’t be scared. Co in."
The won shifted nervously, but they obeyed. Slowly, they approached the long table at the center of the room, where three sewing machines were placed side by side.
Their stone fras glead under the light. The tal pieces looked unreal to them—clean, smooth, and carved with intricate lines.
Ophelia circled one machine, poking it with a cautious finger. "It won’t bite, right?"
Isabella laughed. "Of course not."
A ripple of laughter traveled through the room. The tension dissolved instantly.
Shelia bent down to study the pedals and gears. Her eyes sparkled. "Isabella... did you really bring all of this from your trip?"
"Yes," Isabella replied proudly. "And today, I will teach all of you how to use them."
The room buzzed with excitent.
"Teach us?"
"All of us?"
"Even ? I don’t know anything..."
"Yes," Isabella said again, smiling. "Every single one of you."
The won exchanged incredulous looks. It was rare for a female to teach in this village. Rarer still for soone to teach sothing complicated.
But this was Isabella.
Everything she did felt special.
She stepped to the front and placed her hands on the sewing machine. "This is used to make clothes. It stitches fabrics together very fast. It’s not dangerous if you use it correctly."
She pressed the pedal lightly. The needle bounced up and down with a soft clicking sound.
The won jumped back, gasping.
"Ah!"
"It moves!"
"It’s alive?!"
Isabella’s shoulders shook with restrained laughter. "No, no. It’s not alive. It only moves when I step here. Look."
This ti she stepped slowly, letting them watch every motion carefully. The needle rose and fell like a heartbeat. The won leaned forward with fascinated expressions.
She explained patiently, using the simplest words she could. "You put cloth here. You guide it with your hands. The needle stitches it together. If you want it faster, you push harder. If you want it slower, use less strength."
She demonstrated the movents with smooth precision. Thread in. Fabric lined up. Foot pressed. The machine humd softly, and a straight stitch appeared in the cloth.
"It’s magic..." one woman whispered.
"No," Isabella said with a grin. "It’s better than magic. It’s useful."
The won nodded vigorously.
Isabella then moved to the huge machine in the corner...her duplication machine.
The faint glow of its sigil reflected gently on her face. The won stared at it as if they’d stumbled upon a sacred treasure.
Shelia squinted. "What... what is this box?"
Isabella stroked the stone surface. "This one can make more cloth. Even if you only have a little, it can create more so that you never run out."
A collective gasp filled the room.
Ophelia pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "Isabella... this is a blessing! This will save us so much work!"
The won crowded closer, so on tiptoes, others leaning over shoulders. Isabella opened the intake slot and placed a thin piece of fabric inside.
"Watch. When the light turns blue, it ans the cloth is being duplicated."
The sigil shimred gently, and the soft hum filled the room. Monts later, the output tray released a fresh strip of perfectly clean, perfectly smooth fabric.
The won scread.
"Ah!"
"It made another one!"
"It didn’t even take long!"
"Isabella, you are amazing!"
Young girls tugged on their mothers’ clothes excitedly. "Mama, can we touch it?"
"No," the mothers whispered, eyes wide. "Only Isabella can touch it."
Isabella laughed softly. "It’s safe. Just don’t put your fingers near the intake slot when it’s working."
Every woman nodded vigorously, as if taking an oath.
Then Isabella moved on to hand-stitching. She lifted a needle and held it between her fingers.
"When the machine is busy, or when you want small decorations, you will sew with your hands. Like this."
She demonstrated slow, careful stitches. Her movents were deliberate, her tone reassuring. The won followed along, each pricking their fingers at least once. Little "ow!" sounds echoed across the hall, followed by watery laughter.
At one point, Ophelia accidentally stabbed herself and threw the needle dramatically onto the table. "I can’t do this! My fingers weren’t made for such tiny weapons!"
Shelia giggled. "Give it back. You dropped it like it insulted your whole family."
"I think it did!"
Isabella pinched Ophelia’s cheek gently. "You’ll get used to it. Try again."
Soon the entire hall was full of movent—dropped needles, tangled threads, uneven stitches, confused frowns, and delighted squeals. The won learned quickly, even if clumsily. Their cheeks flushed with excitent.
Isabella then taught them how to make earrings from polished stones, little loops of bone, and simple tal hooks.
Ophelia twirled her pair in the air. "Look! It sparkles!"
Shelia smiled shyly. "Can I make matching ones for my mother, maybe when we go back to the city I’ll have a chance to give it to her?"
"Of course," Isabella said warmly.
A young girl held up a tiny flower-shaped accessory. "Isabella! Look! Did I do it well?"
Isabella touched the girl’s hair affectionately. "You did very well. You’re talented."
The girl bead, her cheeks turning pink.
The feminine energy in the room was soft, warm, bright—like a flock of birds chirping together at dawn. The won laughed, learned, and admired each other’s creations.
Hours passed without them realizing. The sun lowered gently outside. Shadows stretched across the hall.
Shelia finally blinked and looked toward the window. "Isabella... it’s getting late."
Isabella sighed softly. "Yes. We should stop for today."
A chorus of disappointed groans answered her.
"But we were having fun..."
"I want to make another one..."
"Just one more stitch..."
Isabella raised her eyebrow. "If you don’t go ho now, your mates won’t let rest and you know I don’t like when they disturb "
The won froze.
Then they scrambled instantly.
"Oh! Yes, right!"
"My mate will start pacing again..."
"My children will cry..."
Isabella laughed until her stomach ached.
Before they ran out, she raised her voice. "Tomorrow, we continue. Bring the cloth you made. We will start winter clothing next week."
Their eyes lit up.
They bowed gratefully. "Thank you, Isabella! Thank you!"
The hall slowly emptied, leaving behind scattered threads, fabric pieces, and the warm fading echo of laughter.
Isabella cleaned up a little, stacking baskets and covering the machines. When she stepped outside, the sky was dipped in orange and purple. The cool breeze brushed softly against her face.
She walked toward her stone room, humming lightly.
When she entered, the room was empty.
"Cyrus must be cooking..." she murmured. The faint sll of roasting at drifted from the distance.
She stretched her arms and sank onto the stone bed, letting her tired muscles relax. "Today was tiring... but fun."
Just as she closed her eyes for a mont—
The door pushed open slowly.
Footsteps padded inside.
Isabella cracked one eye open.
Zyran stepped in with a lazy grin, leaning against the doorfra like he owned the place.
Isabella stared.
Zyran raised an eyebrow. "What? You look disappointed. Were you expecting Cyrus?"
Isabella let herself fall flat onto the bed with a groan. "Oh great. Why is this man here again?"
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