Her hall doesn’t feel like a hall, so much as a loom stretched out into forever. Gold threads hang from the rafters, some drifting loose, some pulled tight into tapestries.

Aglaea looks like she’s apart of it. Every step, every brush of her hand against the strands, they answer her. A flick of her wrist and a thread hums, a whole corner of a tapestry brightening. She beckons you forward without even looking back, her eyes already tracing the pattern she’s been weaving.

“Come closer,” she says, and it’s not a request. As you approach her, the woman’s hand catches yours, cool fingers guiding you toward the loom.

The thread is fine, finer than hair, and you can feel it buzzing faintly against your skin. She sets your hand on it, and the moment you pull, it sparks. Tiny flecks of gold leap into the air before fading.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even glance at the mistake, she just watches you with those sharp sea-green eyes.

“Every pull has weight,” she says, quiet, as if she were trying not to spook a wild animal. “Too hard, and the pattern breaks. Too soft, and nothing takes shape.”

You try again, careful, but the thread still jumps, hissing as it catches against another. She tilts her head, a faint crease forming at her brow, like she’s judging more than just your weaving.

“This is how choice works,” she says, stepping in close, her voice low in your ear. “Every mistake leaves a mark. Every hesitation burns time we do not have. And yet—” She reaches past you, her hand steady, and the strands fall into perfect alignment under her touch. “The threads can still be mended, if you learn to see the pattern.”

She withdraws her hand slowly, the gold fading to a small shimmer again.

“Tell me,” she says, the faintest curl at the edge of her lips. “Do you want to keep weaving?”