Under the silver hush of night, the world seemed still.
The moon hung high above the vast stretch of the elven forest, its pale light spilling over the canopy like a river of silk. The ancient trees swayed softly in the midnight breeze, their leaves whispering secrets of a time long past. Crickets sang somewhere distant, and the faint rustle of nocturnal life echoed between the roots and shadows.
Beyond the thick treeline — near the edge of the forest — a single campfire flickered. Its golden flame danced against the quiet dark, sending spirals of smoke into the sky. Around it sat four figures: Rolph,— the man who mirrored Vincent's face — Gustav, and the Saintess.
From a distance, unseen, Luca and Sylthara watched. Their incorporeal forms lingered near the camp's edge, faint and translucent under the moonlight.
Luca's gaze was steady, thoughtful.
