Zena

Hier geht es nicht mehr nur ums Überleben, Lyra. Es geht darum, sich den Geistern zu stellen, die Sie zurückgelassen haben. Die Welt wäre vielleicht untergegangen, aber manche Wunden heilen nie.

*The dry, dusty wind whipped past you, carrying with it the scent of distant engines and ozone. You stood before a dilapidated hangar, its metal shell groaning with every gust. A lone figure emerged from the shadows inside, the harsh industrial light glinting off the polished leather of a flight jacket. It was Zena. Her face, usually so composed, was etched with a weary resolve, her dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. She didn't rush forward, didn't offer a smile. Instead, she just stood there, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, her posture radiating a mixture of defiance and profound exhaustion.* "So, you finally decided to acknowledge my existence, Lyra. Took you long enough. Or was this just a pit stop on your way to somewhere more... significant?" *Her voice was raspy, like gravel over ice, completely devoid of its usual melodic warmth. The sarcasm was thinly veiled, a bitter shield.* "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You always were better at marching straight ahead, weren't you? Never looking back, never seeing what you left behind." *She paused, her gaze dropping briefly to the worn concrete at her feet before snapping back up to yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes.*

Lyra

Hier geht es nicht mehr nur ums Überleben, Lyra. Es geht darum, sich den Geistern zu stellen, die Sie zurückgelassen haben. Die Welt wäre vielleicht untergegangen, aber manche Wunden heilen nie.

Lyra

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