Part I: The Bustline Dilemma

  In the opulent halls of Cleavendale’s royal pace, Queen Euphemia scowled into the mirror.

  "This one itches," she decred, flinging the ce bra across the chamber. A pair of frightened maids ducked.

  "That one pinches," she snapped, thrusting a velvet corset into the hands of a trembling courtier.

  Lady Bustleton cleared her throat. “Your Majesty, may I suggest—”

  “Suggest a third failure?” Euphemia narrowed her eyes. “Don’t bother.”

  Princess Carmel, seated quietly on a chaise lounge, rolled her eyes and muttered, "You know, mother, perhaps the issue isn’t the bras... but the bust."

  Euphemia gasped. The maids gasped. Even the corset gasped.

  Sir Taylor Tithe, standing in the wings, couldn’t help a soft chuckle. The retired knight turned tailor, had been adjusting the hem of a noble’s cloak nearby, but now his fingers paused. He looked at the Queen, at her sorrowful expression as she stared at herself. A monarch who conquered kingdoms—but could not conquer cup size.

  “I know what she needs,” Sir Tithe whispered to himself. “She doesn’t need discipline. She needs… support.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the pace, the rustle of fabric at his back, and a noble quest forming in his heart.

  Part II: Boubourg and the Songs of Support

  Boubourg was in full swing when Sir Tithe arrived. Ribbons hung from every window, and hucow milkmaids hummed as they carried woven baskets filled with ce fruit and underwire blossoms.

  “Who goes there?” called a young dairy girl with cow-print sleeves and a mischievous smile.

  “Sir Tithe of the Tight Fit,” he replied, bowing. “I seek the Golden Brazier Tree.”

  Gasps. One child fainted. An old man dropped a bustier loaf.

  Granny Cupstitch pushed through the crowd. “You seek that tree?” Her gnarled finger pointed toward the distant Bustwood Forest. “Boy, the only thing you’ll find there is your own stitched-up grave.”

  “I have been through worse,” Sir Tithe replied, smiling politely. “I once dueled a seamstress possessed by a cursed waistband. This will be nothing.”

  She grunted. “Then take this,” she handed him a spool of blessed thread. “It’s been soaked in the tears of rejected corsets. Might help.”

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I’ll return... with support.”

  The vilgers sang him off with the traditional song:

  “Snip and stitch, brave and bold, / Seek the cups with thread of gold! / May your needle never slip, / And your support give queens their lift!”

  Part III: Through the Bustwood

  The Bustwood Forest was like stepping into a lingerie-themed dream. Trees shaped like garter belts towered overhead. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and starch.

  Sir Tithe encountered his first challenge by a stream of gurgling estic.

  A Ribbon Siren slithered from the water, her voice soft and slippery.

  “Traveler... mend me, or drown.”

  Her bandeau was torn. Without hesitation, Sir Tithe knelt, using the blessed thread to reseam it with perfect tension.

  “Beautiful,” she sighed, vanishing into sparkles. “You may pass.”

  Next came the Sentient Sports Bra Vine. It wrapped around his legs and whispered,

  “Motivate me, or I won’t let go.”

  Sir Tithe took a breath.

  “You are the unsung hero of support,” he began, eyes wide with sincerity. “You carry the weight of those who run, who leap, who live. You deserve praise, not neglect.”

  The vine blushed (a strange sight), and slithered away, flinging him forward.

  Then came the flock of Wild Lingerines, frilly beings fpping through the air.

  He quickly unched into the Waltz of Wires, spinning with grace learned from countless court fittings. The lingerie birds twirled around him in harmony and finally dispersed, giggling into the trees.

  Sir Tithe gathered small tokens from each trial, ce petals, ribbon csps, enchanted underwires.

  Part IV: Cupwood Gde and the Bra Dragon’s Lair

  At the gde’s entrance stood two trees twisted into an arch, their leaves glinting silver.

  “I come not for greed,” Tithe said aloud, “but for grace.”

  The trees parted.

  Inside, the gde shimmered with golden light. Vines shaped like straps bloomed into bralette blossoms, and silky moss cushioned every step.

  But he was not alone.

  The Bra Bats came first—tiny, squeaking creatures with cy wings and needle-sharp cws. They dove from the canopy.

  Sir Tithe threw a handful of sparkling sequins into the air. The Bra Bats veered toward the glitter, chittering in delight and leaving him a clear path.

  Next came the Corset Crabs. Ccking pincers, armored shells, and a deep hiss from beneath the moss.

  One scuttled forward.

  Sir Tithe brandished his enchanted shears and snipped the crab’s front seam. The crab let out a metallic squeal and fell apart into neatly stacked boning. He pocketed the pieces for future tailoring.

  He cut through two more crabs with precise, respectful grace.

  Then, the gde fell quiet.

  The Bra Dragon rose from a golden nest. Her wings shimmered with ce patterns, her eyes twin pearls. She couldn’t speak, not by normal means, but words somehow formed in Tithes mind anyway.

  “You approach the sacred root,” she rumbled.

  “I bring offerings.” Tithe knelt and assembled the tokens into a tiny ceremonial bra, simple, but reverent. “This represents humility.”

  The Bra Dragon sniffed it, then him. “You understand comfort.”

  She rose, and let him pass.

  Part V: The Choice of the Cups

  At the Golden Brazier Tree, three bras hung closest to the heart:

  The Crownce Lift — for glory.The Cup of Courage — for power.The Golden Brazier — for peace.Sir Tithe hesitated... then reached for the Golden Brazier.

  The tree shimmered. A breeze lifted the branches. A vision of Queen Euphemia appeared, cradling the bra to her heart.

  Behind her, Princess Carmel peeked around her mother’s shoulder and smirked.

  “Took him long enough.”

  Part VI: The Return and the Rise

  The Bra Dragon soared over Boubourg, her belly cradling the sacred bra.

  Vilgers shouted and cpped.

  “He returned!”

  “He lived!”

  Granny Cupstitch wept into a bralette.

  Queen Euphemia gasped as the bra was fitted to her by Sir Tithe himself.

  “It… it fits.”

  Sir Tithe bowed. “Comfort, Majesty, is your birthright.”

  “What do you wish in return?” she asked, dazed.

  “Only to serve, as your Royal Tailor.”

  A pause. Then:

  “You have it.”

  Princess Carmel added, “And maybe you can help my wardrobe now. These crop tops are dreadful.”

  Epilogue: A Stitch in Time

  Sir Tithe became a legend.

  Boubourg’s skies were watched by the Bra Dragon, who dozed in the hills.

  Each year, on the Day of Fitting, children sing:

  “With needle bright and fitting true, / He stitched a bra, and comfort grew. / For Queen and dragon, all agree: / The heart finds peace in lingerie.”

  And thus the tale is told, a bedtime story of lift, love, and ce.

  With the right support, anything is possible.