The Forbidden Patch

The tension overwhelmed me as I entered Ida’s shop. I walked straight to the front counter, refusing to look at the guard sitting in the corner. The weathered walnut floors creaked with my every step, and the feeling of his eyes on me never wavered. 

Ida made her way to the counter to greet me, a worn and dejected look on her face. I grabbed my dark-brown tunic from my pack and slid it to her across the counter. “One sun patch, please,” I said. “One month’s worth.” Our eyes met for a moment, and then with a small nod she walked quietly to the back workshop.

At a large oak table worn from years of use, she eased into a floral armchair and began hand stitching a sun onto the right side of my tunic. Her needle moved quickly through the fabric, and golden thread moved effortlessly through her fingers. Yellow sparks swirled around her hands, imbuing the patch with the power to create light. Another guard stood beside her as she worked, despite the sun patch being only a Class I patch. 

In the Kingdom of Montoria, weaving Class II and III patches into garments was heavily restricted. And after part of the royal armory was destroyed by a rebel group using a Class III fire patch six months ago, the royal officials were desperate to find the weaver responsible for aiding the resistance. Two guards were now stationed at each of Montoria’s five weaver shops.

The constant surveillance was wearing on Ida. The resilience and spirit she once had seemed to slowly be disappearing. The shine had faded from her curly gray hair, her complexion had grown pale, and her face maintained the same stoic expression. She looked so different from how I remembered her when I was a little girl.

Before the war had begun, my mother brought me here to get matching Class I blossom patches. We were going to grow flowers in the window sill. Remember, Natalia, patches are temporary tools. Rely on them too much, and you may forget what you are capable of doing yourself, my mother had said to me. I tried not to think about how much I relied on them now.

I looked around the shop, careful to not make eye contact with the guard. Ida’s shop still smelled of chamomile and sage. The same landscape painting of Garadell Valley hung over the stone mantle to the right of the front entry, and a collage of tapestries covered the left wall. Small windows were positioned on both sides of the front door, but looking out the window now, a dust storm tore through the streets, a stark reminder of how the war had changed Montoria since the last time I was here.

Suddenly, a young boy was running straight through the dust storm toward the shop, a guard chasing after him. The guard slammed the boy right into the window in front of me. The guard sitting at the front entry immediately went to assist. 

The distraction had begun.

I looked back towards Ida as her eyes flicked toward me. The guard standing beside her hesitated for a moment before heading outside to investigate the commotion. Just as we had hoped. 

Once both guards were outside, Ida turned the tunic inside out and the navy blue thread disappeared into the seam, blue sparks flying around her hands. Come on, Ida. Be quick. We’re so close.

I peeked back out the front window. The boy and guard disappeared into the dust as the other two guards turned toward the shop. Just as the yellow sparks resumed around Ida’s hands, the guards returned to their posts at the front entry and next to Ida. 

Ida snipped the last piece of golden thread, the sparks died out and she held the tunic up to examine her work. The golden sun was still shimmering. Satisfied, she handed the tunic over to the guard for inspection. 

He examined the sun patch, the sleeves, the collar, even turned the shirt inside out. “What’s this?” he asked gruffly as he leaned over to Ida and pointed to an inside seam. I held my breath. 

“Just a minor repair, sir,” Ida replied, voice steady and not looking at him. “The seam was ripping.” 

“But why is it blue?”

“It was the nearest thread I had on hand, sir.”

Still examining, he went over to the other guard and showed him. The other guard was not interested in what appeared to be a minor repair and waved him off after looking for only a few seconds. The guard handed the tunic back to Ida without a word. My shoulders finally relaxed.

She walked back over to the counter, slid the tunic back to me, and said, “That’ll be 8 crowns.” 

We exchanged glances and when I looked at Ida, there was a spark in her eyes. A spark I hadn’t seen since she showed up at the rebel base eight months ago.

“I found a way to hide Class II and III patches in garments,” Ida explained proudly. “I can disguise them as minor repairs as long as I use the right thread, which guards are oblivious about anyways.” It was a great risk, but after the war took her son, secretly weaving forbidden patches into rebels’ garments gave Ida a newfound strength. With Ida’s discovery, the resistance had gained more momentum than ever before and, for the first time, it felt like we could finally have the upper hand. 

But now with weaver shops under constant watch, Ida couldn’t simply bring patches to us without being followed. So, instead, we decided to go to her, pretend to be ordinary customers, and wait for our Class I patches to be done. And, as we proved today, hiding in plain sight worked. 

With the invisibility patch hidden in the seam of my tunic, I pulled my mask over my nose, pushed open the door, and headed toward the rebel base, hopeful. 

The plan would begin tonight.