SCENE 10 – “Echoes of the Past”

[INT. Lyria’s Cottage – KITCHEN – NIGHT]

The moon has risen high. The two moons—one glowing golden-white, the other red-pink—align in the sky, forming the eerie illusion of a giant single eye staring down at the world.

Outside, the crickets sing softly.

Inside, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

A single candle burns in the rustic wooden kitchen, casting shadows on the walls. The flickering flame dances against a small, cracked mirror sitting on the table.

Lyria’s father sits before it, elbows on the table, staring into his reflection. His dark blue eyes are tired—one gleams almost silver, the other deep navy—like they’ve seen centuries.

The light catches the gray in his light blue hair, making it almost look snow-white in parts.

His fingers twitch slightly—nervous energy. Regret. Fear. A man carrying too much history.

Behind him, soft footsteps on the wooden floor.

Lyria’s mother steps in, her long robe swaying gently. Her brown hair is tied back loosely, and her black eyes glint softly in the candlelight.

Mother (softly):

“What are you doing up? It’s late…”

He slowly turns his head over his shoulder.

Father (quietly):

“Just... going through old memories in my head.”

She walks closer, noticing the mirror, the weariness in his posture, the way his shoulders don’t quite rise when he breathes.

She sits beside him.

Mother:

“You seem troubled. Is everything okay?”

Father (after a long pause):

“...It’s about Lyria. She’s growing up fast. Faster than I expected.”

His eyes drop to the candle, the flame reflecting in them like tiny suns.

Father (softly):

“How long has it been since... our son died, Marry?”

She looks down, then out the window at the moon-eye.

Mother (calm, but heavy):

“...Two hundred and eight years.”

Father (sighs):

“Two hundred years... it feels like it all happened ten days ago.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looks at the gray tips.

Father:

“My body stays the same. But my hair… my eyes… they remember.”

He looks into the mirror again—not at himself, but at the ghosts behind his eyes.

Father (softly):

“I still remember her mother. The day she arrived at our doorstep... she was in pieces. Her clothes soaked in blood, body broken, magic spent. But still, she crawled... holding her tight...”

We cut to a quick flashback—brief, intense.

[FLASH – BLOODY SCENE IN A STORMY FOREST]
An elven woman in a shredded royal cloak, bruised and bleeding, clutching a swaddled newborn in her arms. Her lips tremble as she speaks:

“Please... protect her. Please, protect her... from the kingdom.”

She collapses into his arms.

Back to present.

Father:

“And the Queen... with her last breath... begged me to protect her. Not just from danger… but from the kingdom itself. I still don’t understand what she meant. Why would the kingdom turn on her own blood?”

Mother (gently, placing her hand on his):

“Because whatever the Queen did... she did it for Lyria. That much, I believe.”

A long silence.

The candle flickers again. The moons outside pulse softly, watching.

Mother:

“And that… all of that… was only eight years ago.”

They sit in silence, the weight of centuries between them. The quiet night hums.

Then—

[CUT TO: LYRIA’S ROOM]

She sleeps peacefully, curled under a soft green blanket. Her white hair glows faintly under the moonlight streaming through the window.

On her bedside table, the magical dress her father gifted her lies folded. A shimmer of soft pink glows from its fabric—reacting to her dreams.

Something stirs deep within Lyria’s aura. Unseen.

Unspoken.

But not unnoticed.