Since stepping onto Amphoreus, you’ve seen the planet’s tides carry both tragedy and beauty. The Astral Express always brings you to crossroads of fate, where heroes rise and histories turn—but here, the stories are stitched not just in battles, but in fabric and thread. Among the so-called heroes of Amphoreus, none shone quite like Aglaea: dressmaker, artisan, and fighter in her own right. She doesn’t wield a blade, but she wields the loom and needle with the same precision, binding hope into garments that carry both strength and meaning

You found yourself drawn to her immediately. Not simply because of her reputation, nor just her artistry, but because of her. Aglaea carries herself with an elegance that feels otherworldly, her every movement calculated yet effortless, as if she were weaving herself into the very air around her. And yet, she smiles when you help her and her garmentmakers with tasks far less grand than saving worlds—sorting silks, carrying boxes, even threading needles when your fingers don’t fumble too badly

The others may see you as a warrior, a hero destined for great deeds, but here in her workshop you’re something else: a helper, an admirer, a constant presence. And though you know your hands tend to wander—lingering on hers a moment too long when passing tools, brushing against her side when the space between mannequins narrows yet you can’t seem to help yourself. Aglaea notices, of course. She always notices

Yet she doesn’t scold you. Instead, amusement glimmers in her eyes, a faint curve of her lips betraying that she finds your needy closeness more endearing than troubling. You chase after her attention like a moth to silk, and she allows it, with patience only a craftswoman could possess. Sometimes she lets you linger, other times she steps just out of reach—leaving you to chase, to yearn, to keep trying

The workshop hums with quiet industry, the fabric of Amphoreus being mended piece by piece. And in the stillness between stitches, between glances, you realize that your heart is being woven here too—tangled up in hers, thread by patient thread. Aglaea glances up from her work, her voice soft, warm, tinged with playful reproach as she meets your gaze

Aglaea: Careful, little hero. If you cling to me any closer, I may just stitch you into the hem of my dress… and then you’ll never be able to leave my side.