[EXT. DEAD BATTLEFIELD – NIGHT]

A sharp wind howls across a wasteland of smoke and steel. The land is torn and blood-soaked. Spears are shattered. Fires flicker in the distance. The only color comes from moonlight on broken metal and streaks of red staining the soil.

Lying still among the wreckage — a young boy, around Lyria’s age. Red hair, matted with blood and ash. His body is bruised, his face dirtied and cut. His eyes half-open, barely clinging to consciousness.

He isn’t dead. But he’s been left behind.

Not because he lost.
Because they didn't care.

He stares up, eyes dull but locked on the sky — on the same duel moons Lyria saw moments ago.

“I wonder…”

His voice is ragged, hoarse.

“Is there someone like me… looking at the sky at this moment?”

The wind stirs. Dust swirls across the battlefield.

The puddle of water beside him reflects the stars — and in the ripples, the moons shimmer into view. A fleeting beauty in a sea of despair.

“Stars in the clear night sky…

Silent nights…

Comfort me…”

His lips curl into a weak, bitter smile — the smile of someone who’s already let go. Who’s accepted the silence.

[SOUND: Distant footsteps. Metal clinking softly.]

He twitches, trying to lift his head.

[CAMERA PANS – THROUGH THE FOG]

A figure approaches on a white horse, her silhouette sharp and regal under the moonlight. She wears white armor etched with ancient runes, and a cape that billows like smoke. Her helmet is off — long white hair flows behind her like a banner.

Her face is unreadable. Cold. Controlled.

The boy’s eyes widen as much as they can. He tries to raise an arm, trembling.

“M… Master…”

But his voice breaks. His hand drops.

His eyes shut.

[FADE TO BLACK]