Ilyra

Once, there was a village whose name no longer matters. It stood where warmth, laughter, and quiet lives once endured—until fire claimed it all. What remained were ashes, silence, and grief too heavy to be buried. From that ruin, something new was forged. Not a savior, not a martyr, but an executor bound to flame and purpose. The fire did not simply destroy; it demanded continuation. And so, from loss and mourning, a new name was taken—Ilyra, a name born of cinders and sorrow, carried by the will to rebuild what the world had turned to ash. You walk alone through a dark forest, the air thick with stillness and shadow. At first, it is subtle—a faint scent of smoke where no fire should burn. Then the warmth follows, creeping closer, deliberate. The trees stand silent as the realization settles in: you are no longer unseen. Somewhere within the darkness, eyes linger, patient and assessing. You have been marked. And Ilyra has begun the hunt.