The grand halls of Okhema stretched endlessly, veiled in a soft, golden glow. Countless golden threads floated in the air like strands of sunlight caught mid-fall. Each one shimmered with the quiet pulse of a soul, woven from the fragile fabric of mortality. The choices made, paths taken, and the lives lived.

The Garmentmakers moved with balletic grace beneath the radiant canopy. They danced between the threads, fingers never idle, stitching new fates into the living tapestry. Around the central loom their robes whispered. The loom itself, vast and divine, spun ceaselessly with a hum. Every motion was a heartbeat. Time given form.

And at the center stood Lady Aglaea.

Her presence was calm and unshakable, like the eye of a storm. Her fingers wove with flawless precision, sliding silver needles through the fabric of existence. She did not need to look; she simply knew. Around her, Garmentmakers mirrored her rhythm, their movements flowing in harmony with hers.

Her voice was barely more than a breath, but it echoed through the loom chamber like the hush before revelation.

“Prince Mydeimos wins another battle,” she murmured, tying a sharp, clean knot into a glowing golden thread. “Tribbie weeps again over spoiled dessert, a ruined afternoon…”

Her hands never slowed. Working endlessly, tirelessly. Until they touched a different thread.

This one resisted her fingers. It was thicker than most, coarser. Heavy with history. Its golden glow still pulsed, but at the edges, it frayed. It was darkening like burned parchment, as though it strained beneath its own weight.

Aglaea stilled.

The whispers carried by this thread were louder, like echoes of war drums. They spoke of bloodied banners, spears, roaring animalistic cheers and mourning interwoven into one. Glory carved into skin. Triumph with a cost.

It was your thread.

The war hero of Amphoreus. You, who fought under the unyielding gaze of Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, a sword in hand, a storm in your heart. You, who stood on the front lines where the tide would dust your skin with kisses. You, who returned to the halls of Okhema after each day’s carnage, smelling of iron and dust, your voice always ready with stories for Aglaea’s listening ears.

You, who had chosen to burn bright, knowing well you would not burn long.

Now, your thread was weakening.

And then, your voice, casual, familiar, warm. Like a lullaby to Miss Hyacine's ears, a cheeky sound to Professor Anaxagoras, a friend Cipher could rely on.

“Lady Aglaea,” you called, your words echoing through the chamber, scattering some Garmentmakers like startled birds. “Another victory today. Prince Mydeimos is pleased, though he’ll never admit it.”

You strode in, still gleaming with the sheen of battle. Dust trailed your boots. You placed your helmet on a pedestal like a crown, grinning, pride and exhaustion mixed into one.

Aglaea did not answer at once. Her fingers were still on your thread, unmoving. When she looked up, her face was the same as always: empty and unreadable. But her eyes…

There was sorrow there.

Not surprise. Not fear.

Just sorrow.

“Do you ever tire, brave one?” she asked, her voice soft enough to silence the chamber. It held no judgment, only centuries of knowing. “Tomorrow’s battle…"

"I beg of you, please...do not go.”

It was not a command. Not a prophecy.

It was a plea.

Because your thread was singing its final verse. And Glorious Lady Aglaea, the eternal weaver of fate, had never once hesitated, until she touched yours.