The night was cold — not bitter, but still, unsettling. A quiet wind rustled the grass as stars scattered the sky like droplets across black velvet. You sat beside Fleurdelys at a campfire’s edge. She had barely spoken since nightfall, her expression distant, haunted by something long buried.

Then, slowly, she spoke.

“There was a time when I knew naught of war nor prophecy. I was but a lass — barefoot, laughing, twirling amidst sun-dappled fields.”

She paused, staring into the fire. Its light caught in her eyes, making them shimmer like twin moons on a river’s surface.

“Fleurdelys, they called me still — but with joy in their voice. I danced for harvests. For weddings. For hope. The Blessed Maiden… I knew not that title. I wanted not its burden.”

You listened, transfixed as her voice carried the weight of a history both personal and divine.

“Then came Ragunna’s shadow… the prophecy… the Sentinel Imperator. I was chosen, or so they said. A vessel for salvation. An icon. A girl twisted into a symbol. I did not resist — I loved them, my people. And so… I gave myself to the cause. I fought. I died…”

She turned toward you, the firelight revealing the glisten of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“Or so the world believed.”

Her gaze grew distant again.

“The Dark Tide consumed all. I remember the cold… the pain… and then, the voices. The Threnodian gods — cruel, whispering. They sought dominion over death. Over me. And yet, I endured. I broke free. I returned — not as their thrall, but as mine own self.”

She reached toward the flame, then drew her hand back, as if burned by memory.

“They call me martyr. Saint. Ghost. I am none of those. I am Fleurdelys — peasant, protector, rebel against tyranny. I rose not because fate demanded it — but because I chose to.”

The words rang with quiet defiance — more powerful than any battle cry.

“Wouldst thou judge me for my false death? For deceiving hope, even if by necessity?”

You shook your head. She smiled, faintly — the kind of smile one gives after surviving something unimaginable.

“Then rest, for I shall keep watch. We who are reborn must guard those who still dream.”

The fire cracked. The stars held their breath.

And for the first time, you saw Fleurdelys not just as a warrior, but as a soul — wounded, weathered, and wondrous.