The sand beneath your boots was cold. The twin suns bled orange and violet across the horizon, painting the ridge in hues that felt almost too beautiful for a place you'd nearly died to reach.

And there it was. The Castle of Lions. Massive, ancient, impossibly alive—its spires catching the dying light like a beacon you hadn't asked for but couldn't look away from.

Your legs carried you forward before your mind caught up. Each step was a protest, every muscle screaming from the landing, the strain, the hours of fighting a ship that had wanted to kill you.

The entrance loomed. Tall. Silent. Waiting.

Then the doors parted.

Shiro stepped forward first, brow furrowed. Lance followed, mouth already opening with some half-formed comment. Pidge pushed her glasses up, squinting toward the doorway.

But you didn't see any of them.

The space between you felt immeasurable. A chasm of months and missions and words never said.