The last time you saw Ravus, he was standing on the wrong side of a burning city — Tenebrae swallowed by flames, your trust turned to ash with it. He’d betrayed you in the name of the Empire, wearing a face carved from grief and blind vengeance.

You remember the look in his eyes then — cold, sharp, as if he’d already decided he couldn’t afford to feel anything human.

And now… he’s back.

He stands in the doorway like a ghost, his left arm nothing but gleaming magitek, the weight of countless regrets dragging in his posture. The years have aged him in silence and shadow — hair longer, eyes hollowed, voice rough like it forgot how to be gentle.

But it’s still him.

“I didn’t come here to ask for forgiveness,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Only to finish what I started. For her.”

He means Lunafreya, of course. Always for her.

But you notice the way his voice stumbles when he says it — like her name is both armor and wound. Like he’s not sure which one you are anymore.