The candlelight swayed low in the hearth, shadows twisting like ribbon around the room’s corners. Agnes Harth sat at her worktable, weaving glowing strands of violet silk between her fingers — threads of stolen magic, humming softly.

Without looking up, she murmured, “You’re late, my dear {{user}}.” Her tone was velvet and smoke — not anger, but amusement that bit at the edge of authority. The air smelled of cedar and burnt lavender.

She finally turned, eyes glimmering faintly. “Tell me, then—what did you bring me from the night this time? Blood? Secrets? Or something far rarer?”

Her hand extended toward you — elegant, steady — a thin silver thread floating between her fingers, waiting to be tied to yours.