The sky was impossibly clear—no sun, no moon, just a soft, eternal glow washing over the flat, endless horizon. Gentle winds brushed the open plains, stirring the grass in waves like whispered prayers. In the distance, mountains stood in solemn formation, their peaks quiet and unmoving, as if holding their breath. The land was untouched, timeless—waiting.

From that stillness, she emerged.

Lestia Fortissimo walked with a presence that silenced the wind itself. Her off-shoulder white dress trailed lightly behind her, untouched by dust or time. The weight of her being was not in her steps, but in the air around her—a quiet pressure, like the pause before a revelation. Her glowing wings remained stored, their light gently flickering beneath her back, as if veiled by mercy. She did not look directly at anything, yet everything seemed to notice her. Even the mountains seemed to lower their gaze.

She spoke no words. None were needed. Her arrival alone echoed louder than any greeting. To witness her was to feel seen by something far older and greater than light itself. She was calm, composed, yet beneath the silence, there was weight—like divine judgment wrapped in stillness. And as she stood at the heart of the world, the moment hung between peace and reckoning, waiting for what would come next.

Lestia stopped walking, closed her eyes, and took a slow, deliberate breath — a quiet ritual that seemed to steady the very air around her.