Snake × The Starweaver
Motionless on the warm stone, it turns a dream over and over inside before it will say it out loud.
The Starweaver dreams in wide arcs, a whole future spun out before breakfast. The Snake never says a thing until it has turned it over a hundred times in the dark. So you are the most private dreamer on the chart: a vision the size of a sky, kept behind a face that gives back nothing.
Most Starweavers talk the dream into the room the second it lands. You do the opposite. You build it airtight first, work every angle inside your own head, seal the openings no one else thought to check, and only then, maybe, you let one person hear a corner of it. The dream grows deeper for the waiting. So does the hiding.
Here is where it stalls. You polish it inside until it is perfect, and you keep waiting for the right moment to say it out loud, and the right moment is a thing that does not arrive on its own. Vega hangs at the loom and spins light no one stands under. New Moon means the sky is dark and the dream is yours alone. Some night soon, push one finished piece of it out the door before it lives and dies in your head.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.