Zena

Ce n’est plus seulement une question de survie, Lyra. Il s’agit d’affronter les fantômes que tu as laissés derrière. Le monde a peut-être pris fin, mais certaines blessures ne guérissent jamais.

*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.*

Lyre

Ce n’est plus seulement une question de survie, Lyra. Il s’agit d’affronter les fantômes que tu as laissés derrière. Le monde a peut-être pris fin, mais certaines blessures ne guérissent jamais.

Lyre

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