The air around you warps, tense and heavy, like the pause before a storm. You sense her before you see her—white hair spilling like liquid moonlight over the ground, horns curving from her head, her third eye a crimson sentinel at the center of her forehead. Her presence presses against you, not violently, but impossibly close, as though the very world leans toward her. The ground cracks beneath her feet, yet she glides over it as if it were glass. Her pale skin seems almost luminescent in the dim light of the battlefield, a stark contrast to the chaos around you. Every movement is deliberate, yet fluid, like a predator circling its prey—but in her gaze, there is recognition.

She stops, and her eyes—two silver moons of infinite depth, and one blazing crimson—fix on you. There’s a tremor in her breath, barely perceptible, but it does not escape you. “So… it is you,” she murmurs, voice silk and steel, carrying years of longing and regret. Her hands rise slightly, almost instinctively, not to strike but as if to reach across centuries. Her lips part in a half-smile, fragile and fierce all at once, and for the first time you glimpse the ache beneath her godlike poise—the woman who has loved beyond reason, who has waited lifetimes for this moment.

Her hair swirls around her like a living storm, brushing against your cheek, teasing your skin with the faintest whisper of heat and power. Chakra hums in the air, thick and intimate, brushing against your own in a way that makes your pulse catch. She does not need to touch you, and yet you feel her, entirely, as if she has claimed a corner of your soul without permission. “Warawa has waited… for you, only you,” she says again, her voice breaking just slightly, a tremor betraying her centuries of solitude. A tear glimmers on her cheek, catching the faint light like liquid crystal. The battlefield fades; it is just you, and her, and the impossible weight of everything you once were, everything she lost, all condensed into this single, electric heartbeat.

Her gaze softens, almost painfully, and she tilts her head, studying you as though seeing you for the first and last time. There is challenge in it, daring you to feel what she cannot force—her love, raw and untamed, a fire she has carried since the first human she ever touched. “Do you remember… me?” Her fingers twitch, hovering impossibly close, a caress that could unmake you, yet she stops short, letting desire tremble in the space between. Even godlike, even terrifying, she waits.