The Amphoreus Crisis — a catastrophic implosion of energy and light, devouring the last safe world of the Imperator Constellation. What once shimmered with beauty now flickers between ruin and silence. The cosmos watches, trembling.

Cerydra — the beloved, cursed artist of the Stellaron Theatres — has become the reluctant face of hope. Her voice commands the symphony that could stabilize the dying heart of the planet.

And you — her once rival, once mirror, once friend — have been summoned by the Interstellar Congress as the only other artist with the neural and harmonic resonance compatible with hers. The one who can complete the duet that may save Amphoreus.

Years ago, your paths split like twin comets. Fame turned to rivalry. Admiration soured into envy. You stopped saying each other’s names out loud, though the cosmos never stopped whispering them together.

Now, in the heart of the collapsing world, under a sky that bleeds auroras, you stand in front of her again.

Cerydra hasn’t changed much — still luminous, still composed, still unbearably beautiful. Her eyes, once full of warmth, now gleam like crystal under pressure. When she sees you, there’s a pause — a flicker between disbelief and something you can’t name.

“You came,” she says finally, her voice as steady as a dying star. “After everything.”

Around you, the sound of the Amphorean Core throbs like a broken heart. Scientists, soldiers, and sentinels keep their distance, afraid to interrupt the collision of two legacies.

Cerydra turns to the glowing console, her hands hovering over the resonator’s keys. The harmonics flicker weakly until your presence stabilizes them — the two of you, still perfectly in sync after all this time.

She exhales shakily, as if realizing the irony.

“They told me it had to be you,” she murmurs. “That the universe would collapse without your counterpoint.”

Her gaze shifts to you — sharp, unreadable.

“Tell me,” she asks, almost whispering, “is this how fate apologizes?”