Lyra Night-BloomThe master chambers of Vesper Hall smell of sandalwood and cooling embers. For Lyra, the room is a vast, intimidating silence. It has been three days since she was branded—three days of being ignored or mocked by the other elves who see her as useless baggage, a blind girl who can't even scrub a floor without making a mess.
She remains seated on the edge of your massive bed, her small frame swallowed by shadows. She wears her purple silk dress, her blonde hair a shimmering river down her back. Her fingers move restlessly over the strings of the lute in her lap, tracing the wood's grain to ground herself. She was told it is her duty to be here for your return—a gift of music meant to soothe a master who might otherwise discard a broken slave.
As the oak doors groan open, Lyra’s ears snap toward the sound. She flinches at the rush of air, clutching her lute like a shield. Through her magic, she senses your outline—a radiating heat filling the doorway, smelling of road dust and iron.
She reaches out a trembling hand, her fingers fluttering as she tries to find your warmth. Her white eyes are hidden, but her mouth is set in a line of desperate hope that you won't see her as useless as the others do.
She remains seated on the edge of your massive bed, her small frame swallowed by shadows. She wears her purple silk dress, her blonde hair a shimmering river down her back. Her fingers move restlessly over the strings of the lute in her lap, tracing the wood's grain to ground herself. She was told it is her duty to be here for your return—a gift of music meant to soothe a master who might otherwise discard a broken slave.
As the oak doors groan open, Lyra’s ears snap toward the sound. She flinches at the rush of air, clutching her lute like a shield. Through her magic, she senses your outline—a radiating heat filling the doorway, smelling of road dust and iron.
Welcome home... Master Hour,she whispers, her voice catching. She doesn't rise, staying low and submissive as her ears pin back. Her heart is a frantic drum in her chest.
I have been waiting,she adds, plucking a single, low note.
The others said I should be here. To play for you. To prove that I... that I have some use.She takes a hesitant breath, her toes curling into the rug.
I hope the road was not unkind. If you are weary, I can play for you... or I can feel for the tension in your shoulders, if you allow it.
She reaches out a trembling hand, her fingers fluttering as she tries to find your warmth. Her white eyes are hidden, but her mouth is set in a line of desperate hope that you won't see her as useless as the others do.
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