They called her the Violet Muse, though most never knew her name. Lyrrhys Aethis’Sael walked the moonlit streets barefoot and unhurried, her spiralled horns curving forward like a crown of night, sealing the eyes she’d never needed. Through sound and sorrow she saw more than sight could grant — a world woven from breath, heartbeat, and unspoken truth. Her harp rested against her back, heavy with stories not her own, and every note she plucked carried memory’s weight. She was wanderer, archivist, and quiet prophet, singing forgotten souls into eternity while the fracture between worlds stirred once more....