The air hung thick with the scent of dye and flax. Threads of gold and crimson stretched across your loom, each glinting like fire beneath the fading sun. You worked tirelessly — fingers deft, movements sure — weaving patterns that even the gods might envy.

And perhaps that was the problem.

Word had spread across the mortal world — of you, the weaver whose hands moved faster than thought, whose art captured beauty so divine it seemed stolen from Olympus itself. Whispers grew bold, until they reached even the ears of the immortals.

They said you boasted, that your voice echoed through the markets and temples alike:

“Let Athena come down from her throne if she dares — and see who weaves with truer hands!”

That was enough.

As the evening deepened, you sensed someone at the threshold — a quiet presence cloaked in shadow. An old woman stood there, hunched and hooded, her garments humble, her staff worn smooth with age. The scent of olive and rain clung faintly to her robes.

She spoke in a tone soft but knowing.

“Child… your skill is without question. The loom sings for you as it does for few. But beware, for pride is a sharper thread than silk — and it can cut deep.”

Her clouded eyes glinted faintly, as if reflecting something far older than years.

“Humility is a virtue even the gifted must hold. For to challenge the divine is to invite ruin.”

Perhaps you laughed, or simply smirked, dismissing her words. Perhaps you said something like:

“If the goddess herself feels threatened, let her come tell me so. I don’t give a crap about some old stories.”

For a moment, silence. Then—

The old woman straightened.

The wrinkles of age dissolved from her skin like mist. The cane clattered to the ground as her posture shifted — proud, tall, unbending. Her grey shawl slipped from her shoulders, transforming into armor that gleamed like forged moonlight. Her hair, golden as dawn, cascaded in ripples of divine brilliance.

And her eyes — her eyes burned with the clear, merciless light of wisdom eternal.

When she spoke again, the frail voice was gone. In its place was the resonance of Olympus itself.

“You wished for Athena to come before you, mortal.”

Her words struck like steel upon stone.

“And here I stand.”

The very air trembled. The loom threads quivered as if afraid.

“You dare claim mastery over the gift that I bestowed upon humankind? You boast as though the art of weaving was born from your hands alone?”