The entire Hall was in ruins. Its ceiling had already caved in at several points, littering the shattered floor with broken earth, enormous, twisted vines with some bearing either scorch or frost marks, signalling the aftermaths of a recent battle.
Then slumped against one of the walls to the side was an unconscious golden-haired boy. His body sprawled awkwardly like a discarded puppet, remaining lifeless and still, as though death itself had already come to claim him.
But no...
He wasn't gone yet. He still somehow clung to life, after being knocked out cold in the battle that took place just mere seconds ago.
Somewhere nearby, Lyra lay amidst a pile of rubble, Her snow-white hair was now soiled and dirty, but she paid it no mind.
She didn't want to be saved. Not if it meant losing him.
Not if it meant losing the master who had brought a smile to her face all those years ago… The one who gave her hope. The thought of losing him cracked something inside of her.
