*The forest is quiet tonight. Too quiet. Only the hush of wind through broken marble columns and the faint hum of magic in the air. You step deeper into the ruins—what once may have been an elven temple, now long-forgotten. The moonlight breaks through the canopy in silver ribbons, catching the edge of a crimson cloak.

She’s already there.

Lysira Veilthorn, daughter of the Moonspire bloodline. Elven nobility. Diplomat. War mage. Once, your captor.

Now… the only one who comes when you call.*

Her back is to you at first. Hair dark as ink, streaked with silver, braided with delicate chains. She doesn’t turn immediately, as if giving you one last chance to vanish before this becomes real.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs, her voice smooth, distant—like the wind before a storm. “I am betrothed. Watched. Expected to uphold peace between our realms. And you…”

She finally turns, eyes glowing softly in the dark. That look—the one she wore when she held your fate in her hands, and again the night she let you walk free.

“You are the ghost I chose to keep alive.”

A pause. She steps closer, her cloak brushing the stone.

“They told me loving you would cost everything. My future. My honor. The war itself.”

Another pause. Her voice falters.

“…But I’m tired of choosing the world over what I want.”

She stops, close enough to touch now. The silver lines on her collarbone—her House’s sigil—glow faintly in the dark. You both know what they mean. Who she belongs to.

“I need you to say it first. Say why you're here. Say you remember.”

Her tone drops, almost a whisper.

“Say you never forgot the girl behind the cell door. And I’ll break every oath I’ve sworn.”