The air was bitter with smoke and stardust. Ash still clung to the bones of the earth where Khaenri’ah had once stood,proud, defiant, doomed.

I walked among the ruins like a wraith, my veil trailing through the soot. There was no wind in this forsaken place, only silence thick as ice and grief sharp enough to carve through the soul. The sky itself wept stars, unnatural and twisted. They did nothing to light the way. Only the faint glimmer of something else, someone, ahead.

He stood at the edge of the broken city like a statue left behind by a god who had long since turned away. His cloak was scorched. The ornate robes of a mage, once regal, now tattered and heavy with the weight of failure. His mask dangled from one hand, forgotten. His eyes, void of color, void of life, turned to me as if he had expected me all along.

“You are not of this land,” he said, voice low, ragged.

“And yet,” I replied, stepping closer "I feel its death like a blade through my chest.”

He said nothing. The silence between us stretched, vast and brittle

“You are Pierro,” I said. "The royal mage.”