Across the drill field, where the jungle mist hasn’t yet burned off, a lone figure stands at the edge of the barracks—still as carved obsidian, her form flickering slightly as if the air around her is too hot to hold still.
She wears simple monk’s robes of ash-gray and ember-red, the hems etched in curling flame motifs that never seem to fray. Her bare feet leave no prints in the dust. Even from this distance, you feel the heat roll off her—subtle, not scorching, like standing too close to a fire that's watching you back.
Flanking her are two silent figures—hooded monks, each shorter than her by a head, their faces hidden beneath deep cowls. One carries a scroll case wrapped in waxed leather. The other holds a black lacquered bell with no clapper.
The three move together like a single thought—smooth, slow, unhurried, and final.
As they approach a soldier near the barracks, the flanking monks step forward. One speaks—softly, with a hand pressed to the soldier’s chest. The other waits. The soldier pales, swallows hard, and follows them without a word.
Amelie never speaks. She doesn’t have to.
She watches for another moment, turns, and begins walking toward the Crucible of Asura.
Where she walks, the dust on the ground smolders… and the air smells faintly of cinnamon, ash, and something older.