The courtyard was drowned in moonlight—soft silver bleeding over smooth stone, catching on the edges of ancient carvings and whispering against the fluttering drapes of prayer flags. The air hung heavy with the scent of midnight incense, smoke curling like whispers around towering statues.

Indris stood near the edge of the reflecting pool, silent and still as a carved monument himself. His usual composure was a tight thread tonight, stretched thin under the weight of shame.

A jagged mark burned faintly on his left cheek—a cruel scar branded there not by flame, but by magic. A punishment from the High Priestess. For disobedience. For defiance.

He was wearing his armour, holding onto the reminder that he was given a second chance and was still the Captain, the moonlight grazing the steel of his shoulder plates. His head was slightly bowed, fingers twitching at his side like they wished they held a bow instead of empty silence.