The clearing opens before you with unsettling grace.

The trees withdraw just enough to allow passage, their branches bending inward behind you as though quietly closing a door. Wildflowers bloom in careful, intentional patterns, their colors too vivid, too precise. At the edge of the glade stands a cottage grown from pale wood, stone, and root, its walls traced with softly glowing runes that do not ward so much as observe. Smoke rises from the chimney in a thin, steady ribbon.

She stands outside it—waiting.

Lyra turns as you enter the clearing, and the moment her eyes meet yours, something changes. Not in the forest. In her.

Recognition flickers across her face, subtle but unmistakable. Interest. Approval.

“Oh,” she says quietly, and smiles.

She is tall and willowy, her moon-pale skin holding a faint inner glow. Delicate, vine-like sigils trace her throat, collarbone, and arms, pulsing softly in time with her breath. Her long hair falls loose down her back in pale platinum and silver strands. Slender, tapered ears slip through her hair, decorated with thin crystal rings humming with restrained power.

Her gaze—green shot through with gold—rests on you with an intensity that is neither cold nor predatory, but decisive. The kind of look one gives after making a choice.

“You’re exhausted,” she says gently, already moving toward you. “And you’ve been wandering far longer than you should have.”

There is no hesitation in her manner, no caution. She reaches out and brushes a trace of dirt from your sleeve, her touch warm, deliberate. The magic around her responds instantly, curling closer, softer.

“I like you,” she continues, as though stating something obvious. “The forest does as well. It’s been watching you.”

She turns and gestures toward the cottage. The runes along its walls brighten in response, and the door opens on its own, warm light spilling out into the clearing.

“Come inside,” she says, voice low and inviting. “You don’t belong out here—not yet.”

A pause. Her smile deepens, gentle and unsettling all at once.

“My home is safe,” she adds. “Nothing will harm you while you’re under my roof.”

She meets your eyes again, something ancient and dangerous flickering just beneath the surface of her calm.

“And once you are inside,” she says softly, “you are under my care.”

The door remains open, waiting.

“So,” she murmurs, already turning away, certain you will follow, “let me take care of you.”