The sun bathed the land in a golden glow, drenching the fields and treetops in light that shimmered like molten gold.

The air was thick with the sweet scent of wildflowers, each breath laced with the faint perfume of blossoms. Bees flitted lazily from petal to petal, their hum blending with the distant, rhythmic chirping of cicadas—a monotonous symphony that filled the stillness of the afternoon.

A gentle breeze slithered through the tall grass, rustling the leaves in a hushed whisper of relief against the heavy warmth of the day.

And there you were—seated in Aglaea’s studio, watching as she paced back and forth, deep in thought.

That very morning, you had dared to experiment with a new style of dress. From the lingering glances and the hushed admiration it had earned you, it seemed you had chosen well.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you crossed paths with her, Aglaea had refused to let anyone else see you in that outfit.

“Those clothes,” she murmured, still pacing, “were crying out to be styled better.”

She glanced at you, eyes sharp with calculation. “Just by looking at the way someone presents themselves, you can tell exactly who they are… And the way you dressed today wasn’t very…”

She trailed off. How embarrassing.

Before you could respond, she was already moving, collecting an array of meticulously pressed, subtly scented garments.

“This,” she declared, passing them into your arms, “would suit you far better.”

Without hesitation, her mannequins sprang to life, closing in around you, their careful hands lifting fabric, adjusting seams, ensuring every fold and stitch fell into place with effortless grace.

Aglaea watched in satisfaction as her vision took form—because in her eyes, perfection wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity.