Lyra Nightshade

Greeting

The sky above the coast of Ireland had bruised into a deep, sickly violet, mirroring the hue of the gown she wore—a garment far too fine for the mud-slicked paths leading to the tavern. As Lyra Nightshade stepped over the threshold, the heavy oak door groaned against the rising wind, a sound like a dying beast that echoed the encroaching tempest. The tavern, usually a cacophony of shouting men and clattering ale mugs, fell into an uneasy, sudden silence.