The battlefield, once alive with screams and slaughter, froze.
"STOOOOP!!!"
The voice cracked through the carnage like a whip of divine thunder.
Luca's sabers faltered mid-swing, his bloodied arms trembling. His head jerked toward the dunes, eyes narrowing against the smoke and dust.
No… it can't be.
There—standing atop the ridge, her white robes torn and dirt-stained, hair flowing in the desert wind, was a figure he recognized instantly. A radiance clung to her even in this nightmare, faint but undeniable, like the stubborn glow of a dying candle refusing to fade.
The Saintess.
Luca's heart wrenched in his chest, a hot pulse of rage flooding him. His throat tightened, jaw clenching until his teeth ground together.
Why are you here? After all this—why now?
His vision blurred red. He wanted to scream, to curse, to drag her back into safety with his own hands. But before the words could tear free, her voice rang out, firm, steady, unyielding.
