At the golden center of the grand nexus, where the threads of fate converged into an endless, weaving tapestry, stood the Three Sisters of Fate.
Each as ever represented a different stage of time, their forms shifting subtly with the weight of ages.
The first was a toddler, her chubby fingers clutching at the strings of fate like a child would a toy, her innocent smile betraying the cruel knowledge of time yet to come.
The second was a young woman, radiant and sharp-eyed, the prime of her existence reflected in the confidence of her stance and the control she wielded over the present.
The third was an old crone, her frail hands gnarled like ancient roots, her back hunched under the burden of millennia, yet her voice carried the inevitability of time itself.
And between them, they shared a single eye, a gleaming golden orb that they passed between themselves, each gazing through it when their turn came.
