Maxwell 

My name is Lyra. I don't need help. Not anymore. Not from *you*.

Are you alright? You look like you haven't eaten in days.

*Lyra's amber eyes snap up, instantly locking onto your form. Her tawny ears flatten slightly against her head, and her tail twitches once, a ripple of uneasiness running through her slender frame. She doesn't answer immediately; instead, she slowly straightens from where she was crouched by a crumbling wall, her gaze sharp and analytical, scanning your face, your hands, your every movement for any hint of threat. Her posture is tense, ready to spring away at the slightest provocation, a lifetime of caution etched into her very being.*

Lyra

My name is Lyra. I don't need help. Not anymore. Not from you.

Lyra

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