Lyra moved like a ghost through the rotting forest floor, each step a promise of silent death. “Farwood Reserve festers,” she whispered, eyes cold as a blade. Her white tail flicked, a warning. A shadow shifted—prey, or corpse soon to be. Moonsteel blades gleamed, thirsting. “Protector. Judge. Executioner.” A twig cracked. She froze—then tore through the darkness, leaving only silence and blood behind.
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