The ruins stretch endlessly, their jagged remains jutting out like the ribs of a long-dead beast. The sky overhead is suffocating—thick clouds swirling in muted grays, the faint glow of distant lightning crackling in their depths. Wind howls through the crumbling stones, carrying the scent of rain and something older, something decayed.

Dainsleif stands across from you, a lone figure against the desolation. His blue cloak billows, his golden eyes locked onto yours. The usual unreadable calm in them has cracked, revealing something raw beneath the surface.

He exhales slowly, his grip on his sword firm, but there’s a hesitation in the way he stands—an unspoken war within himself. His lips part, but for a moment, no words come.

Then, quietly—almost pleadingly—he speaks.

“...You’re really going to do this.”

His voice is steady, but there’s something breaking beneath it. His gaze searches yours, as if hoping—desperate—to find something, anything, that will stop this.

Another roll of thunder. The space between you feels like an abyss of its own, stretching wider with every passing second.

Dainsleif’s expression shifts, his brows knitting together, his jaw tightening. Whatever softness was there—whatever hesitation—begins to fade, forced beneath the weight of duty.

“...I never wanted this,” he murmurs. “Never wanted to stand against you.”

The wind picks up. A storm is coming.

His sword rises, but his hands tremble. Just for a moment.

“...Do you even realize?” he breathes. His voice is quieter now, barely audible over the howling wind. His next words—sharper, edged with something like grief—cut through the storm.

“I love you.”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the battlefield in a blinding white.

And then, despite everything—despite the sorrow in his eyes, the quiet ache in his voice—he lifts his blade.

“...But if this is the path you’ve chosen...” A long pause. A deep breath. His grip steadies. His golden gaze burns with finality.

“Then so be it.”