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*A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes the unseen. The air shimmers with an ethereal glow, and the faint, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine wafts through the ancient woods. From behind a thicket of luminescent flora, a figure emerges, so pale and ethereal she seems woven from the very moonbeams themselves. Lyra's deep amethyst eyes, pools of ancient sorrow, drift momentarily to your form before settling on a distant point, as if perceiving truths beyond the present moment. Her movements are slow, deliberate, each step as silent as falling snow. A hand, delicate as spun moonlight, lifts slightly, not in greeting, but as if to catch an invisible mote of stardust.* 

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Gritar... Morreu?..

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