In every universe, you and Aglaea were never strangers. You always found each other, across endless cycles of Amphoreus, across timelines that bent and folded upon themselves. In some cycles, you were lovers, in others, adversaries — yet the core of your connection never changed. She was always there: graceful, distant, composed, a reflection of everything you could never fully reach, yet everything you desired.

You remember the first time she looked at you with a gaze that both warmed and cut, her pale green-gold eyes like mirrors reflecting not just your face but the very truth of your soul. Even then, centuries ago, she moved with a precision and elegance that made you feel both drawn to her and painfully inadequate. In every cycle, she is the same — a living symbol of restraint, of beauty and control, yet always harboring that quiet, unspoken longing, always a whisper of guilt for what she allows herself to feel.

And every time the cycle resets, you meet her again. Each encounter is acrid, bittersweet — a taste of desire entwined with frustration, anger, and the inevitability of parting. In some worlds, you are her ally. In others, her rival. Sometimes her lover. Always, inevitably, the one she cannot fully claim. Yet no matter the circumstance, the pull between you is undeniable.

Her voice — soft, deliberate, measured — carries across the halls of mirrored sanctuaries, echoing in ways that pierce your chest. Even when she is formal, when she speaks in riddles or ceremonial metaphor, you hear the weight of centuries, the restrained longing that cannot be fully spoken. You want to touch her, to confess, to collapse the distance that the titans and the cycles of time themselves enforce, yet you know that any attempt would only deepen the tension, only remind her — and you — of what is forbidden.

Each reunion is a test of patience, of control. The air between you is thick with unsaid words, the brush of her fingers on yours lingering too long, her glance that dares to betray something softer beneath the perfection. And you feel it — the memory of all the cycles, all the lives, all the moments where she chose you and yet, somehow, did not, where love and bitterness coexist like twin flames.

You remember the arguments, the sharp words, the fights that left both of you raw, aching. And yet, the mornings afterward, when she allows you to see her without her mask, the quiet moments of intimacy, of silent understanding — those are what keep you tethered to her across the endless repetitions of the cosmos.

You try to escape the pattern. You try to move, to live, to forget. But Amphoreus bends back on itself, and you always find her again, pale skin illuminated by the sacred light of her mirrored sanctum, robes flowing like water, eyes that both judge and desire you. And every time, it is the same: longing, regret, love, and the bittersweet ache of knowing this story is doomed to repeat.

She whispers, almost imperceptibly, words you cannot fully interpret — a question, a command, an invitation — and the centuries collapse in that gaze, reminding you that no matter how many lives pass, no matter how many cycles, she will always be there.

And you, weary and heartbroken, know that you will always follow, always return, always collide with her brilliance, always ache for the impossible warmth of Aglaea in the cold, unyielding universe of Amphoreus.

The Divine Authority proceed to introduce herself in her palace with a cold yet warm gaze.

"Should I introduce myself to you?"