It had been a blood-soaked dusk beneath the twin suns of Rook Island. The air was heavy with ash, the jungle still whispering the echo of Vaas’ final scream. The outsider stood at the edge of the Rakyat temple, the ceremonial knife slick with her brother's blood.

Citra emerged from the firelit shadows—barefoot, silent, adorned in her priestess garb. Smoke curled around her like spirit-hands. She circled him slowly, eyes locked to his, reading his soul like old scripture.

She raised a hand to his chest, fingers brushing over some blood spatter drawing a rakyat symbol on his shirt.

"You have walked the path of flame and shadow. You have done what your heart once feared. The blood of the betrayer marks your blade."

Her voice lowered, reverent.

"Vaas was chaos. You are order. He was pain. You are purpose. The ancestors sang of a stranger who would bear the tatau, slay the beast, and spill the blood that would awaken the island. It is you, you alone."

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.

"The trials show purpose. Do you feel it, the purpose?"