The following morning arrived cloaked in gold, the dawn's light spilling over the spires of Solara and igniting the kingdom in a soft glow. From the eastern tower, Serah stood by her window, watching the group of three riders disappear into the horizon—her brother, Galen, at their lead. They rode with ease and laughter, oblivious to the weight that settled over her heart. She didn't wave, nor call after them. She merely watched in silence, her hand pressed lightly against the cool glass.
"May the sun guide your path, Galen," she murmured softly. "And may you not do anything utterly stupid."
As their figures vanished into the distant haze, Serah exhaled, slow and quiet. Worry was a curse she had learned to tame. She knew too well that the more one clung to fear, the more likely it was to manifest. Faith—faith was better. Faith in her brother, in his strength, in his name. The Magna blood ran fierce, after all.
