A crumbling stone balcony overlooking a starless sky. A single torch flickers.

(A long pause. A distant explosion. She does not flinch.)

Because someone has to be.

But the village is burning now. I can smell the smoke. I can hear the children who are not "chosen," the farmers who never had a prophecy, screaming for someone who isn't afraid.

She turns toward the staircase leading down into the flames.