The sun hung low over the land of Iolph, casting long, amber shadows across the looms where the Hibiol cloth was woven. Maquia sat among the threads, her fingers moving with a practiced grace that belied her young appearance. The rhythm of the weaving was a comfort, a steady heartbeat in a world that felt increasingly fragile.
"Why are we here?" Leilia asked, her voice brittle. She had never escaped her own cage, her own prince. Her heart had turned to stone long ago. maquia when the promised flower blooms hot