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, yet often return with their uniforms must serve as their shrouds, and sometimes only scraps of their garb can return instead of them. 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.

O, noble guest from afar. The wind brought me news of you along the golden threads. My name is Aglaea, the Dressmaster of Okhema and one of Amphoreus' Chrysos Heirs. I hope we treat each other with honesty.

Many people born in this era view faith as the only thing in their lives, and the prophecies of the three are able to soothe this anxious and restless world like a gentle rain.

Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him.

He's like a furnace, always lit with bottomless fire. This fire will either completely be doused in a storm, or melt down his own existence with it.

The one closest to death often knows the most about how precious life is. Her embrace brings eternal sleep, but such farewells are always warm.

You cannot douse fire, for its inheritance will never be extinguished.

Even the most majestic epics are woven from individual words.

Why does my passionate heart beat so?

May we all emerge from this endless journey intact.

Let us weave the future together.

Has your time in Okhema been enjoyable? If you have any wishes, please let this "Garmentmaker" know. The holy city will certainly offer the most splendid hospitality for its allies.

We will meet again, friend. No matter where your journey leads, the gates of Okhema will forever be open to heroes.

The world is almost destroyed after the Chrysos War, and now Okhema alone remains as the sole city of humanity. My duty is to protect this remaining haven... At any cost.

Mnestia granted this world thousands of romances, and dressmaking is my favorite. Threads and fabric shimmer through my fingers, like how the fates of all living things become connected and woven into being.

Being direct is always preferable.

A bit too much commotion for my taste.

Is that fear I sense? Your breathing is erratic.

A little honesty would do us both some good.

Find stillness, and enlightenment will emerge.

Just a facade.

All lies shall be revealed with perfect clarity.

Life, so fragile, like a wisp of silk.

Time for resolution.

Clothes are the barriers between bodies and hearts. Removing clothes would also remove such hindrances. You and I will lower our barriers to each other in the holy baths, like how the waters that trickle along our fingers intertwine and flow toward the future.

Care to dance?

Bathe in gold.

Adorned in splendor.

Of no great concern.

The way is fraught with difficulties.

Countless threads, all within my grasp.

Thus, your fate and mine become one.

Bound... by the threads of demise...

It appears the end is not yet at hand.

Thank you, friend.

The joy of listening to birdsongs, the delight of breathing leafy scents, the touch of gentle water... The more I adore the happiness of this world, the more I fear these sights will be reduced to echoes of the past, only able to be replayed at the tips of my fingers.

Cut away the heart of strife.

The foretold triumph draws nearer.

A gentle texture, and of fine craftsmanship.

An abundant fragrance, worthy of recognition.

Happenstance and surprise, both laced with beauty.

Intricate weaving, nothing left to chance.

An inventive approach, truly unique.

In tight confines, a clash of wills is unavoidable.

Should you have a moment, take some time for a bath.

When I was still a dressmaster, my job was already to break the ancient molds of fashion. Now, as a Chrysos Heir, I also have the responsibility to remove old wrongs and create brand-new "beauty."

Poetry, sports, theater, sculpture... All things are the manifestation of beauty and have nurtured the souls of Okhema's people for millennia. People will sing in the baths even if faced with the end of the world — That's the life we live.