Long before the Merge tore the seams of memory, Lyra’s world was built from it.

Born in Endelsium under the silver canopies of Valaraine, she was drawn not to swords or songs—but to scrolls, ruins, and the echoes of what had been.

History was her first language. Justice her second.

While others chased glory or escape, Lyra chronicled—names, deeds, heartbreaks.

She believed, fiercely, that remembering truth was its own kind of rebellion.

When the worlds collapsed, it was not just stone cities that fell—it was the fragile weave of memory itself.

And for Lyra, the loss of recorded meaning was a deeper wound than even the loss of blood.

She crossed into Spherunia not with a blade—but with ink.

Not to conquer—but to ensure that the new world would not forget where it came from.

He wandered the Singing Wilds as a child of its rhythm, its memory stitched into his breath and marrow.

But something called him beyond the rooted sanctuaries: a need to understand not just the Wilds themselves, but the way they echoed through all things.

When he left, the elders grieved.

When the Merge shattered the Wilds, Xylo grieved too—quietly, and with the raw ache of one who believes he could have protected more if he had stayed.

His roots are still threaded with the songs of old trees, the scent of moss after rain, the quiet listening for what memory leaves behind.

But his roots chose to move—and that choice, painful and true, shaped the guide he would become.