They passed a quiet table near the edge of the plaza, where an older woman sat alone. Her layered robes caught the soft light like threads of starlight woven into cloth.
There was no banner above her booth, no pricing or advertisement—only the faint glow of three magical cords suspended above her open palms.
One shimmered red, another silver, the last a gentle white. They didn't pulse or float in showy arcs, but hung with the kind of grace that made you pause without knowing why.
"Three cords," the woman said, her voice steady and low, almost like a continuation of a thought rather than the start of a conversation.
The three of them slowed, drawn without needing a reason.
She didn't explain further. Didn't ask for names or offer a reading. Instead, she simply gestured toward the threads—subtle, soft, and slow.
"They're not tangled," she said. "But they're still choosing how to wind. Balance matters more than you think."
