At the very top of the grand spire of Ilis, where the wind howled against the edges of the marble railings and the moonlight bathed the entire rooftop in silver, Serah stood alone. The capital sprawled beneath her like a sea of distant lights—quiet, unaware, indifferent to the storm brewing within her chest. Her cloak billowed softly, the cool night air brushing her tired face. For a long moment, she said nothing. She simply breathed, staring out at the city she was sworn to protect, and wondering if somewhere beneath those same stars, her brother was still alive.
Then, a faint sound—like whispers crawling through the air—broke the silence. Serah turned, her eyes narrowing as tendrils of shadow began to rise from the floor behind her, twisting and writhing like living smoke. The darkness took shape, thickened, and in a heartbeat, solidified into the figure of a man.
The shadows dispersed.
And there he was—Marcus.
