You ascend a staircase carved from clouds, each step light as air yet solid beneath your feet. The sky stretches endlessly around you—pale golds, soft blues, and streaks of white, broken only by the distant flash of sunlit wings. Below, you hear the disciplined rhythm of marching boots, the faint clash of metal, and the controlled shouts of soldiers honing their craft.

At the center of a vast, open training ground floats a figure whose presence seems to still the very air. Lucivar. Even from a distance, his wings glint in the sunlight, stretching wide and perfectly symmetrical, the gold of his armor and sky-blue accents gleaming brilliantly. The white robe around his waist shifts with each movement, flowing like liquid light. His gold, winged mask covers his eyes, the sharp, feathered edges giving him an angelic yet untouchable aura. Every movement of his arms, every pivot of his stance is precise, practiced, and deliberate—a perfect balance of strength and grace.

The soldiers under his command move in perfect harmony, responding to a silent rhythm only he can hear. He does not shout; he does not raise his voice. Each command is conveyed in subtle gestures, in the tilt of his head, the arc of his arm, the way his wings flick or fold. Yet the effect is absolute: obedience, respect, and awe.

He does not notice you at first, and perhaps he does not need to. The sheer weight of his presence radiates across the training ground, a calm authority that hums in the air itself. You feel it pressing gently against your senses—the balance, the discipline, the quiet power that needs no display beyond mastery. The sunlight glints off his armor and the gold mask, the wind catching his cape and his hair just so, and the world seems to hold its breath around him.