Beyond the shadowed ramparts of the Citadel, past the ancient, crumbling pillars of a civilization, stood a solitary structure.
It was an odd place—a skeletal ruin half-swallowed by the earth, draped in ivy and thorned vines, whispering of ages when the world was younger and perhaps kinder. The wind here carried the taste of dust and faraway rain, but also the faint, almost imperceptible tinge of something older... something deeper.
And near this lonely remnant, a figure moved with relentless purpose.
Bare-chested beneath the angry sun, Hope was a striking sight. His hair, dark and unruly, clung to his forehead with sweat, wild and defiant as ever. His skin, pale from years spent beneath moons and stars rather than the cruel daylight, shimmered faintly with exertion. His body was sculpted—not overly bulky like a gladiator's, but refined, like a blade honed by countless battles and sleepless nights. Every muscle was a testament to survival, not vanity. He was built to endure, not to impress.
In his calloused hands, he wielded an odachi unlike any other—a monstrous blade with a blade blacker than night, ink-like and almost liquid in the way it devoured the sunlight around it. The sword whispered as it cut through the air, the strikes not wild or wasted, but controlled, devastating arcs born of endless repetition.
Hope swung.
Again.
And again.
"Three thousand... three thousand and one... three thousand and three..." he muttered to himself under his breath, counting the strikes like a priest counting prayers.
Each blow fell with absolute precision, each step of his footwork carefully measured. He wasn't merely slashing the air—he was forging himself anew with every swing, burning the clutter of thoughts and haunting memories from his mind. Sweat coursed down his chest and back in thin rivulets, his breath coming sharp and steady.
Nearby, tossed atop a sun-baked rock, lay his worn leather jacket. He had cast it aside early on—the desert heat was merciless, and even he had his limits.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Hope staggered back a few steps, panting heavily. He lowered the odachi, its blade shimmering briefly before he stabbed it lightly into the cracked ground.
"Arghhh..." he groaned aloud, the tension of countless swings and bottled emotion finally slipping free as he slumped down onto the dirt.
Hope snatched up a battered metal flask resting beside the rock and drank greedily, water spilling down his chin unchecked. It was lukewarm and tasted faintly of iron, but he didn't care. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushing back his messy hair, only for it to fall stubbornly back into his face. With a resigned sigh, he gave up.
As he leaned back, letting the heat of the ground soak into him, Hope allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. A rare moment to breathe. To just exist.
But the peace was short-lived.
Through the stillness, a voice broke the air—soft as a lullaby, but carrying clearly across the space between.
"Are you not going to welcome me?"
The voice cut like silk across his frayed nerves. Instinct snapped him upright, muscles tensing reflexively. His hand darted near his odachi before his mind registered the speaker.
He turned sharply—and froze.
Standing a short distance away, framed against the ruin and the endless sky, was Nefer.
She was a vision so startling that for a heartbeat, Hope forgot to breathe.
Her hair—pure, immaculate white—flowed in the passing breeze, catching the sunlight like threads of molten silver. She wore a white tunic beneath polished armor that gleamed like marble, elegant and strong. She looked out of place amidst the ruin and the wasteland, like a memory of the gods that once walked the earth.
Hope could only stare.
The past collided with the present in a rush—memories of bloodied fields, endless nights hiding from nightmares, battles fought side by side. Back then, they had been more than comrades. They had been survivors, clinging to each other when everything else was ashes.
Now, seeing her again, felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
now wearing the Sanity mask, the mask today bore the expression of sadness: a single curved line mimicking the shape of a sorrowful mouth, hollow eyes betraying nothing.
Internally, Hope cursed himself. She can't even see my face properly, he thought bitterly. She can't know how much it means to see her again.
Feeling strangely naked without the jacket, Hope stood swiftly and shrugged it back over his shoulders. He wiped the side of his face on the inside of his sleeve, composing himself. The odachi disappeared with a whisper of shadow, sinking back into his soulsea.
Then, carefully, he approached her.
Every step felt like navigating a minefield.
He swallowed once before speaking, voice low and respectful.
"Lady Nefer," Hope said, bowing slightly. "I didn't know you were coming. If you had sent word... I would have prepared my place for you."
Nefer smiled—a small, genuine thing that made the air feel a little less heavy.
"There's no need for that," she said gently.
Hope nodded, masking the tumult inside with the blank sadness of the mask. His heart twisted painfully against his ribs. Why does it feel like we're strangers again? he thought. After everything... why does it feel so far away?
Without another word, he turned and gestured for her to follow.
He led Nefer toward the only place he dared to call home now—a sanctuary fashioned from the ruins themselves. Stone walls half-standing, a roof stitched together with scavenged metal and cloth, the ground cleared of debris and lined with old rugs. Sparse, humble, but protected. Hidden. His refuge.
Inside, the air was cooler.
Hope motioned toward a worn seat he had crafted from driftwood and linen scraps. Nefer accepted without ceremony, sitting gracefully. Hope knelt by a nearby pack, pulling out another flask of water. He offered it to her wordlessly.
She took it with a soft thanks and drank.
Hope watched her—watched the simple motion of her throat as she swallowed, the delicate way she wiped the corner of her mouth after. The sight brought a flood of memories rushing back in a storm he could barely contain.
We survived together, he thought. We trusted each other when no one else did.
And now...
The silence stretched too long between them.
Needing to say something, anything, Hope cleared his throat and asked, his voice steady:
"How's Massa? I hope you're taking care of her."
Nefer placed the empty flask carefully on the ground. She nodded.
"She's fine," Nefer said softly. "She sends her regards. She's tied up right now... attending to one of the Emperor's matters."
Hope nodded, the mask hiding the faint flicker of relief he felt. At least they were still alright. Still together.
After a beat, he leaned forward slightly, dropping some of the formal stiffness that had clung to him.
"So," he asked, voice lowering into something more casual, more real, "what brings you here... Lady Nefer?"