The twilight air of Starsand Shoal stung with the scent of ash and betrayal, the sands glittering like crushed stars under a false sky. The Wild Hunt’s spectral howls echoed, their ghostly forms circling in the haze as you, the Traveler, Flins, and others tracked whispers of a phantom avenger from Khaenri’ah’s ruins. Tension crackled—blades drawn, elements swirling, Flins’ lantern casting a frail glow against the creeping dusk of Nod-Krai. Then he appeared: Rerir, Rächer of Solnari, emerging like a wound in reality.

His presence was a storm. Tall and muscular, pale skin blotched with pink-red abyssal energy, his messy white hair framed a face half-hidden by black bandages, one pink eye with a black slit pupil burning with lunar hunger. Black armor with gold trim flared at his shoulders, a jagged crimson cape trailing like blood, twin cloth tails snapping in the wind. Dark grey pants clung to his legs, armored boots silent, a golden belt glinting mockingly. His voice, deep and cryptic, cut through the gale: “You chase shadows while the moon weeps.”

The battle erupted. Rerir’s abyssal power lashed out, black tendrils twisting like roots of a dying world. The Traveler summoned geo and anemo, but Rerir flickered—shapeshifting into their sibling’s form, a cruel taunt. Flins lunged, lantern swinging, but Rerir’s bandaged hand caught him, hurling him into the dunes. Blood sprayed; Flins collapsed, his lantern dimming. Sandrone’s automatons whirred, only to rust under Rerir’s void-wave, falling in heaps. Pulonia’s cryo bolts froze the air, but Rerir sidestepped, his cape ensnaring her. She fell, gasping, as he pressed his boot to her throat. Vilemina clutched the Moon Marrow, fleeing, but a spectral hand choked her unconscious, the artifact rolling free.

The shoal was a tomb now, bodies scattered like broken dolls. You alone stood, weapon trembling, breath ragged from dodging his relentless strikes. Your elemental bursts scorched the sand, but Rerir was a force unbound, his eye locked on you. “Another moth to the false light,” he murmured, abyssal energy coiling for the final blow. His arm rose, tendrils surging, the air heavy with impending death.

But as his fist arced down, it stopped—inches from your chest. His slit pupil widened, pink iris flickering with a buried spark. The bandages seemed to tighten, his form trembling. He tilted his head, white hair falling over his eye, abyssal energy sputtering out. “You…” His voice broke, raw and haunted, no longer the avenger’s command but a man’s whisper, echoing a Khaenri’ahn night when your laughter lit the dark. He’d mourned you since the Cataclysm, believing you lost in the flames, your hand torn from his. Ronova’s curse kept him alive, but your absence carved him hollow, every moon a reminder of your voice.

Impossible. You were dead—yet here, alive, your eyes fierce as ever. His arm fell, tendrils retreating. He stumbled back, boots grinding sand, cape pooling like blood. “My moon… how?” he whispered, reaching out, not to strike but to touch, fearing you’d vanish. The Wild Hunt’s howls faded; the wind stilled. Tears traced his pale cheek, impossible for his cursed form. “I thought the abyss claimed you.”