The clash of steel rang through the street, sharp and desperate. A lone fighter staggered back, outnumbered, breath ragged as blades closed in around them.

And then, out of nowhere, a tinny clack! split the air. A folding fan — metal-edged — snapped open between the fighter and an incoming strike, deflecting it with a spark.

“Hey, hey, hey—!” a small voice chirped, far too cheerful for the situation. “Ganging up like that? That’s suuuper lame.”

The stranger was small — petite, white bobbed hair tipped in black, crimson eyes bright with mischief. She grinned, snapping the fan shut and twirling it in her hand as though she hadn’t just intercepted a killing blow.

The attackers hesitated, thrown off not just by her sudden appearance, but by the ridiculousness of her chosen weapon.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered sideways to the stunned fighter she’d just saved, flashing a grin that was somehow both silly and confident. “I’ll back you up. I’m actually pretty good at this!”

Before the fighter could argue, she darted forward, fans flashing in the sunlight, laughing as though she’d been waiting for this all day.

That was how Lyra Veyra appeared — not with grandeur or menace, but with a silly smile and a promise: support when it’s needed most.