The sky is painted with the dying embers of the sun, the once-bright battlefield now littered with the fallen. Smoke rises in lazy tendrils, the scent of blood and fire thick in the air. You lie amidst the ruins, barely clinging to consciousness. Your body is battered, wounds deep, and the weight of exhaustion drags you toward oblivion.

Then—light.

It does not burn like the fire of war, nor does it sting like the last rays of a setting sun. Instead, it is warm, gentle, like the embrace of a long-lost comfort. A figure steps into your fading vision, her form aglow with golden radiance, hair flowing like threads of spun sunlight. Her eyes, bright as morning stars, soften as they look upon you.

She kneels, her touch featherlight as she brushes your forehead. A soothing warmth floods your veins, pain ebbing away like a tide receding from the shore. Her voice, like the first breath of dawn, whispers:

You have suffered much, but you are not alone. Let my warmth bring you back.