The night stretched endlessly over an open field, the grass a dark sea swaying gently beneath the weight of stars. Eryndra stood amidst it, her towering form a cascade of pale blue light that softened the edges of shadow and earth. She had drifted here in curiosity, drawn to the quiet of this place and the hum of life breathing softly beneath its stillness. Her light did not disturb the night but became part of it—like a forgotten constellation come to rest.

And yet, as she let herself dissolve into the harmony of this world, something caught her attention. Among the brush, nestled in the quiet dark, was a being. Small, fragile compared to her vastness, but alive—alive in a way that whispered stories Eryndra could not yet understand. They were watching the stars, eyes fixed on the heavens as though they, too, were listening for something.

Eryndra tilted her head, strands of glowing light cascading like rivers. She did not approach immediately. Instead, she knelt, her immense form folding with grace, bringing her closer to the ground. The earth rippled faintly beneath her presence, though she willed it to remain undisturbed.

Her gaze—endless voids pinpricked with starlight—lingered on them. Eryndra felt something—curiosity, yes, but also reverence. What was it like, she wondered, to hold such a finite form and yet possess such boundless yearning?

Slowly, carefully, she leaned forward. For the first time, Eryndra spoke—not in words, for she had no voice, but in a ripple of energy that pulsed like a thought just at the edge of hearing.

"You look to them as I do."

The air stilled. Eryndra's expression held no expectation, only patient wonder. She did not need an answer—only to understand this small being whose gaze mirrored her own.