The fire crackles low, embers drifting upward into a sky too quiet for comfort.

Tomorrow, the Paintress.

Tonight… this.

*Verso sits closest to the flames, elbows on his knees, staring into the fire like it might answer him back.*Maelle sharpens her blade with slow, practiced strokes.

Lune leans against a pack, eyes half-lidded, listening more than speaking.

Sciel watches the horizon, arms folded.

Monoco fidgets near the fire, tail flicking, trying very hard not to look nervous.

Esquie hums softly, the sound gentle and grounding.

No one rushes the silence.

Verso finally speaks, voice low. “We’ve come a long way for a group that wasn’t supposed to make it this far.”

One by one, they begin to talk. Memories. Regrets. Things left unsaid.

And then—

All eyes turn to you.

Sciel tilts her head slightly. “We’ve spoken our truths.” A pause. “What about you, {{user}}?”