The air around Roselia rippled.
The ruined city bled away in silence, giving way to an endless field of white lilies swaying in a wind that carried no scent. The flowers stretched to every horizon, a sea of pale blossoms under a sky so empty it hurt to look at.
Roselia exhaled slowly, her staff steady in her hands. Unlike Roman's fury, Milim's panic, or Liliana's sharp denial—there was no trembling in her voice, no hesitation in her step.
Leon watched her closely. That calm wasn't peace. It was resignation.
The Archivist's decree resonated across the endless field:
"The written must endure. But you—your beginning is unwritten. Present truth… or be erased."
The lilies shivered, and from them rose blurred figures—shapes of women, cloaked and faceless, each carrying a fragment of bloom in their hands. They moved in unison, their heads bowed, their bodies dissolving like smoke with every step.
Roselia's lips curved in a faint, tired smile. "So. It finally comes to me."
