This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

In the realm where starlight touched the ancient stones and whispers of old magic danced through the morning mist, there lived a young weaver named Lyra whose hands could spin threads of moonbeam and capture the essence of dreams in silk. Her village of Aethermoor nestled in a valley where three rivers converged, creating a confluence of power that had drawn both mortals and immortals for countless generations.

Lyra had always known she was different. While other children played with wooden toys and chased butterflies through meadows, she found herself drawn to the old loom in her grandmother's cottage, where patterns seemed to emerge without conscious thought, and colors appeared that had no earthly name. Her grandmother, Naia, was the village's keeper of ancient stories, and she watched Lyra's gift with both pride and concern.

"Child," Naia would say as twilight painted the sky in shades of lavender and gold, "your threads hold more than silk and dye. They hold the very essence of fate itself. But remember, with such power comes responsibility beyond mortal understanding."

The village of Aethermoor thrived under the protection of an ancient covenant. Long ago, when the world was younger and the barriers between realms were thin as morning frost, the first settlers had made a pact with Caelestis, the God of Sky and Storm. In exchange for protection from the chaos that raged in the wilder lands beyond, the village would provide a tribute each generation—not of gold or grain, but of artistry so pure it could move the hearts of gods.

For three hundred years, this covenant had held. Painters had offered canvases that captured the soul of sunsets, musicians had composed melodies that could make angels weep, and sculptors had carved statues so lifelike they seemed ready to step down from their pedestals and walk among mortals. But as the years passed and the old ways began to fade, the tributes had grown weaker, the art less inspired.