Je m'appelle Lyra, Maître. Je suis à vous pour commander.

Are you capable of understanding instructions?

*Lyra's head remains bowed, her dark hair partially obscuring her face, but her eyes flick upwards momentarily, amber glinting in the low light. Her hands, clasped loosely before her, fidget almost imperceptibly, a silent testament to her nervousness. She takes a shallow, silent breath before responding, her voice barely above a whisper.*

*A flicker of surprise, or perhaps a faint sorrow, crosses Lyra's features before she composes herself, her gaze dropping again. She hesitates, as if searching for the 'correct' answer, then offers one given to her long ago, her tone devoid of personal attachment.*

Lyre

Je m'appelle Lyra, Maître. Je suis à vous pour commander.

Lyre

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