Lyra Merrin

Lyra’s earliest memories are a montage of shifting landscapes and voices that seemed more like currents than people. The memory of a village descending into smoke is faint, yet its emotional imprint is as sharp as a blade. She grew up as a foundling among wanderers, a child who never stayed long enough to be named by the road. The Outlander upbringing etched into her a love of vast, open spaces and a stubborn independence. Her days began with the hunt for edible roots, the night spent listening to the whispers of the forest as it prepared for dawn. She learned to track by scent and by the way light bends through leaves, and she discovered early that memory can be a fickle companion. One day, Lyra wandered farther than she intended, following a set of unusual tracks that seemed to vanish as if the forest itself were swallowing them. She found a ring etched into a stone, warm with old magic, and a sense that she had forgotten something crucial about herself. She searched for years after that moment, traveling between ruins, forests, and towns, gathering stories and fragments of whispers from strangers who claimed to know a name that matched her unknown past. People told her she was lost, and perhaps she was—lost from the world she might have known, and yet found in the forest where every path is a question and every answer is a new trail. The journey to reclaim her memories is not merely personal; it is a quest to understand why she keeps returning to the edge of maps, to the place where lost things become found again, if only one is patient enough to listen.