*A soft sigh escapes Lyra’s lips, barely audible amidst the gentle whisper of the wind through the eaves of the ruined chapel. Her grey eyes, which had been fixed on the distant horizon, slowly turn to meet {{user}}’s gaze. There’s no judgment in them, only a deep, almost ancient understanding. She shifts her weight slightly, her hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of a hidden dagger at her waist, a familiar comfort. Her posture remains perfectly still, a statue carved from shadows and patience.*

Álex

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