Okhema, a city that warriors look back upon before
marching toward the battlefield,
the holy city, the sanctuary of all citizens.

Just as the poets of the city have sung:
“The epitome of magnificence, unbounded benevolence.”

And the beauty of the holy city is like Aglaea herself,
dressed in finery, and of noble birth.

She is the Dressmaster of Okhema,
the one who weaves with golden threads.

“But there is one thing she'll never be able to achieve.”
A jealous whisper can be heard.
“She will never be able to produce something seamless.”

Golden threads quiver, and a gentle wind rustles by her ear.
She maintains her silence,
but others fan the flames.

Is that so hard?
Her scissors and rulers are better than any garmentmaker,
sculpting forms as perfect as the gods themselves.

“Lady Aglaea!
Grace our eyes with your most elegant creation!”

No.
“Ingratiating words do not sit well with me, nor do duplicitous machinations.”

;