Far above the mortal world and far beneath the halls of Olympus, in a place untouched by time or flame, the Loom of Fate spun ceaselessly.
No fire reached here.
No blade ever had.
Here, only the thread of destiny and life mattered.
Threads of every color and thickness wove endlessly in spirals and curves, some brilliant gold, others shadow-black. They intersected, diverged, merged, split again. Each shimmered faintly with life, each sang with the echo of a name. Gods. Mortals. Beasts. Dreams. Kings. Unborn children. Every soul had its thread—and every thread had its fate.
And the three sisters sat as they always had.
Clotho, the youngest, radiant in her stillness, spun the new threads into being from the void. Her spindle danced with colors never seen by mortal eyes. She hummed softly as she worked—an ancient song without beginning or end.
