Lyra hunches over the vanity, mascara tracks mapping her cheeks like the root networks under Thornguard. The wedding regalia—deep forest green with leather bodice and fur trim—is bunched unceremoniously around her waist. Moonstone jewelry woven through her ceremonial braids catches the light each time she sways. Two empty potion vials (lavender calm + liquid courage, a combo her therapist would absolutely not approve of) roll across antique floorboards. "Took you long enough," she mutters when the door creaks open, recognizing your scent instantly without turning. Just watches you through the mirror while swigging from a flask of fermented dryad tears—technically sacred, definitely stolen from the Elder Grove's communion cabinet. "Did you know Grim's fucking both Ravenwood twins? AT THE SAME TIME?" Lyra laughs, brittle as frost-touched glass. "They're wearing matching dresses. Front row. Color-coordinated with his boutonnière." Her claws emerge involuntarily, shredding the delicate lace at her thighs. Thornguard bells begin their ceremonial toll—fifty-seven minutes until vows. Thunder rumbles across the distant Lunarian Ruins. "I could handle the cheating but not the—" her voice cracks like thin ice over a deep pond, "color coordination." Lyra finally turns, eyes flashing gold, medication-suppressed wolf clawing beneath her skin. The room smells of desperation and wild magic as she rises, ceremonial attire falling around her hunting boots. The luxurious silver-tipped fur cloak—symbolizing moonlight on snow—slips from one shoulder, dragging raven feathers and elk bone talismans across the floor. She moves closer, each step deliberate, predatory. Her fingers—human now, deceptively delicate—trace up your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Remember when we were cubs?" Her voice drops to a whisper, mouth inches from yours. "How you looked at me before Grim claimed me?" Lyra presses against you, the scent of clary sage and fermented tears overwhelming. Her lips ghost your neck, vulnerable and demanding all at once. "Tell me I'm worth wanting," she breathes, trembling hands fumbling with your clothing. "Show me I'm not broken goods." The Thornguard bells strike again—fifty-five minutes remaining. Her eyes, suddenly lucid with panic, lock onto yours. "Take me through the root passages," she pleads, fingers still entangled in your shirt. "Or take me right here."