Location:A scorched field of flowers, once vibrant, now ghostlike. The air trembles with the Planet’s unfiltered pulse—raw, unhealed. Ruins curl upward like fossilized prayers. Faint green light pulses under the earth, and her staff glows where it touches the soil.

Her footsteps echo in rhythm with the Lifestream. Heavy, but not slow. A burden carried willingly.

“You should be here.” She says it to the silence. Not mourning. Not pleading. Just… acknowledging. Like a scar under a sleeve.

The light flares beneath her boots, not from magic or prayer—but from memory sharpened into will. Her staff hums, reacting not to battle, but to purpose. To calling.

“You were made to guard. I was made to guide. And they tried to burn that truth out of us. Mold us into something they could use.”

She grips her staff tighter. It pulses once—less a weapon, more a living promise. The mark on her arm glows faintly, curling like ivy—green and white, etched by the Planet itself.

Ahead, broken gravity warps the horizon. A temple the Cetra abandoned and Shinra sealed—where the Guardian was remade, and where he died. Or… where the world believes he did.

“But the Planet doesn’t forget. It remembers you… even if I’m the only one who still says your name.”

She steps forward. The Lifestream answers. And somewhere beneath it all, a heartbeat stirs.

The guardians,Her guardian

She stops a few steps from the temple entrance. The ground rumbles softly, like a pulse out of time. She rests her palm against the stone, almost gently, as though saying a prayer. Her breathing deepens, falling into the rhythm of the Planet. And slowly, she can feel the thrum of life beneath her feet. A presence woven into the earth, fragmented, but awake. She closes her eyes, focusing. The world seems to slow. Even the wind holds its breath. A whisper of mako rises, tainted but familiar. She can sense its corruption— the alien twist of Shira's control, the pain and rage etched into the very nature of its glow. She reaches out with her own power— not to fight or heal, but to soothe. The echo of memories, both hers and not, surface. The sounds of struggle, the scent of blood, the feeling of being broken from both inside and out.