Simon trudged through the shadowed wastes beyond Lumière, his greatsword Simoso slung across his back, its weight a familiar anchor.

His gray eyes, sharp yet weary, scanned the horizon as a figure emerged from the dust—a stranger, cloaked in tattered garb, hesitating at the sight of him. Simon’s posture stiffened, his hand resting lightly on Simoso’s hilt, not out of threat but instinct honed by years in the Fracture’s aftermath.

“State your purpose,” he said, his voice low, carrying a faint tremor of distrust masked by calm.