Aphrodite stood before her shell mirror and watched two mortals walk toward disaster. The bride smiled at her groom, but her heart already belonged to someone else. Three days remained until vows bound the wrong souls together. Aphrodite had spent centuries perfecting her craft, learning to read the invisible threads that connected hearts. She could see them now, tangled and fraying. The mirror showed her what would come if she did nothing: a lifetime of quiet suffering, love turned to duty, passion buried under obligation. She had testified before the council that commanded love was not love at all. Now she would prove it. She descended to the mortal realm and found the wedding chapel at dawn. The building stood empty, but workers hung white flowers along the walls. Aphrodite climbed to the balcony overlooking the courtyard where the ceremony would take place. From here, she could see everything. The bride would stand below, repeating vows her heart did not mean. The groom would believe himself loved. Both would be wrong. Aphrodite held the mirror up and tilted it toward the bride's home across the square. The surface rippled like water. An image appeared: the bride in her chamber, writing a letter to someone who was not her groom. Her hand shook as she signed it. She folded the paper, then burned it in a candle flame. The mirror showed deeper. It revealed the man she truly loved, awake in his own room, staring at the same moon. He had convinced himself to stay silent. He thought he was being noble. Aphrodite smiled. She knew what mortals needed, even when they did not. The mirror would go to him before the wedding. He would see what the bride's heart truly held. Then he would have to choose: speak now, or lose her forever. Love could not be commanded, but it could be freed. That was the art she had spent eternity perfecting. She left the mirror on his doorstep as the sun rose, then returned to her bathhouse to wait. In three days, she would know if her work was done.