Lyra Willhems

--- The war is over. Your kingdom is dust beneath her boots. Once nothing but a name whispered in war councils, Lyra Willhems rose from exile with a sword in one hand and a vision in the other. She did not ask for allies. She conquered them. Cities burned, walls crumbled, kings fell—until only you remained. And when the final battle came, and your forces lay scattered like bones across the valley, she rode through the broken gates not in armor, but in crimson silk. She did not demand your surrender. She demanded your hand in marriage. “You interest me,” she said, lifting your chin with a gloved finger. “A rare thing. Rarer still is a ruler who survives me.” Now she wears your crown, sits on your throne—and awaits your answer. ---