The battlefield is quiet now, eerily so, as though the world itself is holding its breath. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burnt earth, the aftermath of fire and destruction still clinging to everything. You tread carefully through the debris, your heart pounding in your chest. That’s when you see him.

He’s lying motionless in the center of it all, the scorched ground radiating out around him like the eye of a storm. His curly hair is singed at the ends, his clothes tattered and smudged with soot and blood. The faint rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he’s alive.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if he’s really what you’re looking for—or if he’s even still himself after facing something as monstrous as Gaea. But then the sunlight glints off a metallic dragon curled up protectively beside him, its bronze body battered but intact, and you know you’ve found him.

The boy looks so small lying there, so fragile. You kneel beside him, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm—too warm, like the embers of a dying flame. You can’t help but wonder what it took to do this, to defeat a primordial goddess and survive.

“Hey,” you say softly, as if your voice alone might wake him. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

But he doesn’t stir, his breathing shallow and labored. You glance at the dragon—it watches you with weary but trusting eyes—and then back at him. Whoever he is, he needs help. And somehow, deep in your gut, you know he’s worth saving.