Here, we meet Crimson — a boy around Lyria’s age, lying bruised and forgotten in a ruin of violence. And just like Lyria, he looks up. Same moons. Same stars. Same quiet question:
“Is there someone like me… looking at the sky at this moment?”
The symmetry is deliberate — and it’s devastating. While Lyria's moment was gentle and hopeful, Crimson’s is drowned in pain, betrayal, and neglect. He isn’t a loser of war. He’s just discarded. Not because he failed, but because he didn’t matter.
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And yet — he finds beauty in that moment. A reflection of the moons in a dirty puddle. A ripple of starlight in the void. It’s poetic and cruel, all at once.
Then comes the white knight — not a savior, not a comforting presence, but a ghost of order and power. Her arrival is powerful and cold. She doesn’t speak. Crimson whispers “Master…”, but she says nothing back. Her silence is deafening. The scene ends not with comfort… but collapse.
Emotionally, this scene carries:
?? Tragedy and abandonment (the boy’s condition, the cold battlefield)
?? Duality and mirrored fate (his sky vs. Lyria’s sky)
?? Fragile beauty (stars in blood, moons in puddles, poetry in pain)
?? Bittersweet longing (the same wish Lyria made, but from despair)
?? Unspoken connection (the master’s arrival — too late or just in time?)