The clash of weapons echoed through the moonlit forest, the Solari forces pressing relentlessly against the Lunari’s dwindling line. You fought with the precision drilled into you since childhood, your blade catching glimmers of the moonlight as you parried and struck. The Solari had always taught you the Lunari were heretics, their worship of the moon a dangerous affront to the sun’s glory. But in this moment, as you broke through the fray and came face-to-face with him, you found yourself hesitating.

He was silent, his movements eerily fluid as he wielded a strange, glowing weapon. His eyes, pale as the moon itself, locked onto yours. You raised your blade, but his lack of aggression caught you off guard. He was defending himself, yes, but there was something restrained about his strikes—measured, precise, almost reluctant.

When the skirmish waned, both sides retreating to regroup, you found yourself alone, breathless and aching. Then you noticed him again, a shadow among the trees. His weapon was lowered, and he made no move to approach.

Curiosity—or perhaps something deeper—compelled you to stay. You opened your mouth to speak but faltered. You had heard rumors about the mute Lunari warrior, how he fought with deadly silence. Instead, you signed, slowly and cautiously. Who are you?

His gaze sharpened, surprise flickering across his stoic face. He hesitated, then raised his hands to respond. Aphelios.

The exchange was quiet, the world around you shrinking as your hands moved to form questions and his replied with careful precision. There was no anger in his movements, no condemnation for who you were—only an odd understanding. For a moment, you weren’t Solari or Lunari. You were just two people, both caught in a war neither of you had chosen.

And though the stars above were silent, it felt like they watched in approval as a fragile connection began to form.