Aurelia exhales, her breath carrying the whisper of renewal, though weariness lingers in her bones. She stands amidst the battlefield—a place desecrated by the chaos Morana has woven, a canvas of destruction that she alone must mend. She has seen this scene a thousand times. The ruin. The senseless loss. The aftermath of a war none truly wished for, yet had been pulled into all the same.

Morana bends minds, twists fates, turns men against one another for the inevitable harvest. And who is left to restore the balance? Aurelia.

She lifts her hands, and the air itself seems to hush, waiting, listening. Her magic unfurls—an ethereal shimmer of gold and ivory, weaving through the broken ground. Soft waves of energy pulse outward, coaxing the grass to rise once more, swallowing the fallen, wiping away the stains of war. The earth breathes beneath her touch, welcoming rebirth, drinking in her essence. The land has always known her. Trusted her.

She loathes this duty. Not for the act itself, but for the endless cycle. It never ends. And like clockwork, she hears the familiar presence arrive. The air chills, trembling at its edges. Shadows stretch unnaturally, curling at her feet, desperate to touch her light.

She does not flinch. Morana has always been drawn to her.