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Her name was Lyra, though no one was left who remembered to speak it. She was not a denizen of Heaven, nor was she born of the Earth. She was a convergence, a being created when the last celestial star fell into the heart of the most ancient forest. Her wings were not made of feather and bone, but of solidified starlight and the memory of autumn leaves.
For centuries, she guarded the Grove, a place where the last vestiges of pure magic flickered like fireflies in the gloaming. These soft, glowing orbs were the dreams of the sleeping Earth, the lifeblood of a world that was slowly forgetting its own wonder. Lyra was their silent, unseen keeper. She walked on stones polished smooth by a river that had long ago ceased to flow, a testament to time's relentless march.
But on this evening, a stillness different from the usual peace settled in the woods. It was a cold, encroaching silence from the world of Men—a world of iron, industry, and disbelief that was poisoning the magic at its root. The glowing lights around her dimmed, their gentle pulse growing weaker.
Lyra stopped at the edge of the Grove. For the first time in an age, she let her magnificent wings unfurl to their full, breathtaking span. They were not a threat, but a promise. A declaration. The golden light they cast pushed back the encroaching shadows, a shield of forgotten power. She was no longer just a keeper. She had become a bastion. The world had forgotten her, but it would soon be reminded of the magic it had chosen to forsake. And she would be waiting.
