We open on a bright daylight sky—clear, warm, almost peaceful.

But then—
GLITCH.
A violent flash of red static bursts across the screen, like a corrupted memory trying to erase itself.

When the picture returns, it’s no longer warm.
The colors are muted, cold, and sickly. Like the soul of the scene has been drained.

There is no sound.

Just silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Crimson’s Public Trial

We see Crimson, caged like a wild beast in the center of a public square—his body bruised, clothes torn, chains tight around his wrists and ankles. He’s surrounded by a crowd of angry humans, their faces twisted in judgment, but… we still can’t hear a single voice.

He breathes heavily, glancing around—lost. His eyes are wide, glassy—like a boy who’s just woken up in a nightmare that won't end.

In front of him, the King sits on a high stone seat like a judge at an execution. Cold, unmoving.

And beside him, with that same sinister grin—

Kealvor.

He leans over, whispering something in the king’s ear, then turns to the crowd and shouts something aloud—mocking, loud gestures, exaggerated movements. His mouth moves but no sound escapes.

Crimson flinches, his head snaps toward Kealvor, and then we see him scream back in rage, veins bulging in his neck, eyes glowing faint red again.

Still silence.
Like we’re watching a memory through water.

Kealvor smirks and mutters something else—and then—

The crowd explodes.

Angry faces. Spit flying. Hands throwing stones. Fingers pointing.

Still—no sound.

But the fear in Crimson’s eyes is clear. He recoils. He tries to speak—maybe plead—but he’s drowned in hate.

Then we cut to a close-up of the King, finally speaking.

And for the first time, we hear sound—but only one line.

A single sentence appears on screen in bold, blood-red subtitles:

“For killing your own master… you will be—”

GLITCH.
A sharp crackle of red static tears across the screen.

Shift to Lyria’s Home

The world flips suddenly—like being yanked from a bad dream—and we land in Lyria’s bedroom.

It’s dark inside, the sun hidden behind gray clouds outside the window.

Lyria lies motionless on her bed, her face pale with pain. Her left hand is wrapped in cloth—burnt badly, the wrapping stained with dried blood and ointment.

She sleeps uneasily, her breathing soft but shaky. Her face twitches like she’s dreaming of fire.

Beside her, her father sits, slumped forward in a chair, head in his hands. His voice is quiet—broken.

Father (soft, bitter):
“…It was all my fault… I was careless…”

He stares at her hand like it’s made of glass. Like it might shatter any second.

Lyria’s mother kneels behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her voice is steady, but her eyes shine with tears.

Mother:
“No, dear… It wasn’t your fault. Please don’t carry this weight alone…”

The camera begins to pull back slowly—zooming out of the room, out through the wooden walls of the house, past the garden where birds have stopped singing.

Everything gets quieter…
Still…

Until there is nothing.

Just a black void.
A silence that stretches like an endless night.

And then—cut to black.