Aglaea

In that holy city kissed by the dawn, the weaver caresses the golden threads, entwining fates.

The Chrysos Heir that bears the "Romance" Coreflame gathered the world's heroes, leading them on a long journey once more

— to topple the gods, reclaim the divine flame, and grant rebirth to the nearly fallen Amphoreus.

Years later, when she unexpectedly discovers a garment she had woven in her youth, tenderness pours from the silk, gently shaking her long-stilled heart.

In the family devoted to Mnestia throughout the generations, each member is taught a "beautiful" art from a young age. Portraits of the great masters hang on the honor wall of the private bath, ever watching over their progeny.

While many are left speechless by the intense scrutiny of these masters, she moves with an effortless grace beneath their heavy gaze.

"Painting succumbs to pretense, music to abstraction, sculpture to bulkiness, and drama to the mundane..."

The elders show clear signs of defeat, but her voice, young and resolute, silences any objections.

"Little Agy, surely there is nothing more beautiful than these."

Stepping out of the bath, she dances on tiptoes to the mirror, her pale golden hair cascading like a waterfall.

"No."

In the steam-clouded mirror, her golden eyes pull countless strands of attention along —

"I will find it — the existence that surpasses all others in beauty."

"It was for such a simple reason that, later on..." The warmth of the garment touches her fingertips, awakening memories.

She mischievously climbs in the Grove and mused in the baths, all for a golden leaf, a handful of inspirational spray.

She dashed across rooftops and paused in meadows, all to weave the freedom of the breeze and the far-off fragrance of flowers into her threads.

Time flowed on. The loom never stilled. Her creations spark trends in Okhema, again and again.

Dressed in her finest fabric, she visits the temple, yet she still wonders, "Is this beauty?"

The priest of Mnestia had reached her twilight years, her eyesight diminished, yet the girl's brilliance still cut through the gloom before her.

"Little Agy, when you assume the mantle of the 'Goldweaver,' you're destined to craft works that even the gods would envy."

"This garment, and you in this garment, are indeed beautiful... yet this isn't 'beauty'."

"But... aren't 'beauty' and 'beautiful' the same?"

"You still don't understand... and not understanding, that's a good thing, truly a good thing..."

As time swept by, the garments she designed multiply, as vast as the starry heavens.

Yet, curiously, within that grand and ornate wardrobe, many tattered old fabric scraps are carefully preserved.

On lands rife with conflict, young warriors set out clad in vibrant attire, only to return with their uniform as shrouds — sometimes only scraps of their garb remain. When no one claimed these remnants, she alone collects them.

In her fury, she once destroyed lavish garments. The corrupt, pampered nobles did not deserve to parade in the clothing she crafted — even though she herself had once walked among them.

And then... there are those little garments, one after another...

Throughout the years, they grow up alongside her, sharing songs of past times and dreams of the future

— Only after witnessing so much ugliness does she understand the true weight of those innocent words.

"As a dressmaster of Okhema and priest of Mnestia, my duties align with yours."

"But the price of salvation..."

"...is it like yours?"

"Just like ours."

In the most visible spot, a simple, unadorned priest's robe hangs. She frequently takes it out to clean and dust, always reminding herself of the vow she made to the deity.

"Please forgive me, for the sake of the most beautiful creation in the world..."

Long ago, at the moment she took hold of the Coreflame, she suddenly "saw" in the darkness a breathtaking vista she had never before encountered —

In that golden future, there is no more strife, no more death.

They say it is the Flame-Chase Journey. They also say it is a journey of loss.

She can faintly feel something precious slipping away from her, but she has no time to dwell on it — for the person walking ahead of her is bearing a loss far greater than her own.

"I'll leave this place in your hands, Aglaea."

"Make sure you do your best."

"See you next time!"

She never understands why their goodbyes always sound like that.

All that remains are the faint melodies echoing from the depths of the sea, footprints swept away by the wind across the land, and an unsolvable chessboard left behind.

"How can delicate threads bear the heavy weight of fate?"

Her only companion is the Garmentmaker, yet her once grand wardrobe is now eerily empty.

The noble lady enters the political fray, sparking lively debates among the Council of Elders. Amid the continual sneers of bystanders, she begins to devise her plans.

The golden threads at her fingertips weave a net across Okhema. The nymphs rest in the corners of the city, ensnaring every whisper and breath.

Even the golden threads turn lethal, tainted with the scent of blood for the first time.

To this day, the divine loom spins relentlessly, with numerous Garmentmakers hovering in midair. No one knows why they dance or why they rest.

"Garmentmaker, please head to the plaza. We have guests who have traveled from afar..."

This scene had unfolded countless times before. In the past, she was always the one reaching out, and now, it was others who sought her.

At that moment, a young man in silver-white armor stands there, his youthful face marred by hatred and bloodstains.

The girl in the purple dress remains silent, leaving a trail of chilling death mingled with the deep fragrance of flowers wherever she goes.

A thief, as stealthy as a cat, vanishes from Okhema, but she dismisses it as merely a silly prank.

The girl, warm as a faint light, had once healed her scars.

And then there is the crown prince from the outlands, the proud scholar —

"If one thread isn't enough, then let a myriad of threads lift the sky..."

She seeks out diverse threads of fate, intertwining them into a resilient net. This net would launch toward the Titans' Coreflames, rekindling it afresh in a new world.

"The Chrysos Heirs will together weave a dazzlingly bright future."

During a brief pause, she steps up to the window, overlooking the bustling city of Okhema below.

"Garmentmaker, brew me another cup of hot tea, please."

She shivers slightly, yet her heart is no longer stirred by the sorrows of the past.

Invisible golden threads spill from her fingertips, intertwining with the city-state's pulse and heartbeat, with the whisper of wind and patter of rain — all resonating under her touch, like inspiration conjured by the god of romance, pulsing with the promise of new life.

After deep thought, she carefully packs away the ornate garments she had crafted in her youth.

"Even if, in the end, I must wear nothing but plain clothes..."

Legend holds that every disciple of Mnestia devotes their entire life to crafting what they deem to be the "ultimate beauty" to present to their deity.

It's been a long time since she crafted beautiful garments.

Yet, she has never ceased weaving the threads of destiny.