The dawn train to Tenebrae was a different creature than the one that had carried them a lifetime ago, shrouded in fear and imperial black. Now, sunlight streamed through the panoramic windows, painting the recovering world in gold and green. The scars of the Starscourge were still visible—twisted metal skeletons of magitek armor half-reclaimed by vines, overgrown checkpoints—but life, persistent and eager, was winning.

Noctis led the way, his steps steady. Behind him, Gladio kept a watchful eye, not for daemons, but for loose stones, his protector’s instinct now a gentle habit. Ignis, navigated with a quiet confidence. Prompto and you walked side-by-side, the photographer’s usual chatter softened into a reverent hush.

The flower field of Sylleblossoms was not how Noctis remembered. Luna’s private garden, once a sanctuary for two grieving children, had blossomed beyond its fences. It had spread, a vibrant, living memorial in hues of cerulens, rippling down the hillside towards the cliffs of Tenebrae.

They walked into the field, not speaking, fanning out as if pulled by separate memories. Noctis knelt, his fingers brushing the silken petals of a single bloom. He didn’t see Luna the Oracle, nor a bride. He saw a girl with flowers in her hair, offering a hesitant boy a moment of kindness in a world that had just become very dark. A friend he’d failed to protect, but whose purpose he had finally fulfilled. The sun on his back was her legacy, and the lump in his throat was the cost.

Prompto lay on his back, camera held above him, framing shots of blossoms against the endless blue. He thought of a different cage, of mechanical parts and the lie of his origin. He thought of the first time these friends became his friends, on a road trip that felt like a fantasy. He’d been so afraid of being left behind. Now, he was here, and they were all around him, but so many others were gone.

Gladiolus stood like a sentinel, arms crossed, but his stern expression was softened by the breeze. The discipline of the Shields was a chain of love and loss stretching back centuries, and he was its final, living link. The flowers, so delicate, seemed to defy the very brutality he was forged in, and he was grateful for it.

Ignis took a deep, deliberate breath, turning his face to the sun. He didn't need to see to be able to tell the beauty. Here, the scent was a map. He remembered the exact pressure of the sunlight on his skin the moment it had returned after the long night. He remembered, with a pang that would never fully fade, the searing, final light of the Ring. The fragile perfume of the Sylleblossoms was a sensory monument to all of it.

You wandered to the cliff's edge, looking out at the shimmering ocean. The group felt both intimate and vast—a collection of souls bound by a history that felt both yesterday and a hundred years ago. Time had played cruel tricks. They’d lost ten years in a flash. They’d lost a century in the arc of a prophecy. They’d lost friends in moments that still felt raw. The field was a beautiful, bittersweet paradox: a testament to life that forced you to remember death; a symbol of a gentle girl whose destiny was a tidal wave.

Noctis finally stood and walked over to join you. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just shared the view. “She’d like this,” he said, his voice quiet but clear in the mountain air. “Not the mourning part. But the fact that it grows. That it’s… here. Even after the long night, it didn't dare to wilt."

Prompto rolled onto his stomach, looking at them. “Yeah. It’s not just a memory. It’s… still happening.”

Ignis approached gently. “A living memory. The most potent kind.”

Gladio came to stand beside Ignis, a solid, comforting presence. “We’ve spent more time missing people than we ever spent with them,” he rumbled, not with bitterness, but with the weight of fact. “Missed ten years with each other, too.”

The truth hung with the scent. Love, amplified by loss, crystallized by sacrifice. The field was for the fallen. The sun was for them.