Lyra had not been born for caution. Her spirit was like a storm—unpredictable, powerful, and sometimes destructive. She was the youngest of Master Elian’s apprentices, and her impulsiveness often clashed with Anya’s contemplative calm and Elian’s meticulous wisdom.

Since childhood, Lyra had shown an innate affinity for the most active and dynamic side of the Dream Realm—the realm of swift creation and destruction, of instant transformation. Where Anya perceived, Lyra acted.

Her childhood in the Deep Foundations had been marked by small yet significant “dream outbursts.”
An argument with another apprentice might manifest as torrential rain in their shared dreamspace; frustration during class could fracture the ethereal floor of the study hall.
They weren’t acts of malice, but simply the uncontrollable exuberance of her will projected into the dream. This had earned her a reputation as “hot-headed,” but also as a girl of indomitable courage.

“Lyra, power without control is like a river in flood,” Master Elian often told her, his calm voice striving to guide her. “It destroys as much as it nourishes.”

“Master,” Lyra would reply, her eyes burning with fire, “sometimes a river must destroy its old bed to carve a new one! And the Ash doesn’t wait for us to sit and contemplate its coming, does it?” Her tongue was as sharp as her mind.
Elian would sigh, though deep down he admired that untamable flame.
He knew Lyra was a double-edged blade: a potential key asset against the growing threat of the Ash—but also a constant risk if she didn’t learn to temper her fury.

He had taught her the dream martial arts—combat and defense techniques, allowing the Wardens to face the most aggressive manifestations of the Ash.
And Lyra excelled.
Her movements were fluid and swift, her ability to manifest dream weapons nearly instantaneous. While Anya sought resonance, Lyra sought battle.

Her impulsiveness was also her weakness. She lacked the deep reflection and subtle analysis that characterized Elian and Anya. To Lyra, a problem was a wall to break through, not a mystery to unravel.
That made her vulnerable to deceit—or to situations requiring patience and the ability to see beyond appearances.

It was during one of their reconnaissance missions in the regions of the Dream Realm most affected by the Ash that Lyra truly grasped the gravity of the situation—and, in a way, the necessity of her own impulsive nature.

They had found a small dream village, once vibrant with collective visions, now reduced to a gray, silent landscape—its dream-inhabitants frozen in expressions of terror. Furious at such devastation, Lyra had charged headlong at one of the largest manifestations of the Ash, a shapeless creature of smoke and despair blocking their path.

“Lyra, get back!” Anya had shouted, sensing the vortex of twisted emotions emanating from the creature. “It’s too dangerous! That’s no simple projection!”
But Lyra hadn’t listened. Wielding a dream blade of light, she had launched herself against the dark mass, her strikes fast and precise. For a moment, it seemed she was winning—the Ash recoiled under her blows.
Then, the creature released a wave of despair so intense that even Lyra faltered.

She was suddenly submerged in visions of failure, loss, and unbearable loneliness. It was a subtle, psychological weapon aimed not at the body but at the spirit. For an instant, Lyra staggered, her sword nearly slipping from her grasp.
Then Anya, overcoming her own fear, stepped forward and extended her hand. “Hold on, Lyra! Don’t let them take you! I can feel your flame!”
Though not a born fighter, Anya projected a sensation of determination and support—a warm wave of solidarity that dispelled the Ash’s freezing despair.
Lyra, jolted back to herself, used that surge to deliver a decisive strike, dispersing the manifestation.

From that day on, Lyra began to understand the value of her companions. Her impulsiveness alone wasn’t enough. She needed Anya’s sensitivity to sense the subtler threats, and Master Elian’s wisdom to guide her strength.
She was still bold, ready for action—but she learned to think, even if only for an instant, before leaping into the fray. Her courage was no longer merely instinctive, but conscious—tempered by newfound awareness.

One evening, under the shimmering lights of the Dream Realm’s twin moons, Lyra sat cross-legged on a stone platform, her blade of light resting beside her. The air shimmered faintly with the residue of their last training session. Master Elian approached quietly, his steps barely disturbing the surface of the dreamstone.

“You did well today,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “You struck with purpose, not rage. That is progress.”

Lyra frowned, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Progress, maybe. But it feels like I’m holding myself back all the time. Like I’m trying to fight with my hands tied.”

Elian smiled faintly. “Control often feels like restraint at first. But true mastery is not about suppressing your flame—it’s about shaping it. The river does not lose its power because it follows a course; it gains strength from it.”

She gave a short laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re calm even when the sky’s falling apart. Me? I feel everything. The fear, the anger, the urgency… It’s like if I don’t move, if I don’t act, I’ll explode.”

Elian knelt beside her, his expression thoughtful. “And yet, Lyra, even explosions have a rhythm. Fire can destroy, but it can also forge. The world does not need you to be still—it needs you to be careful.”

She looked down at her hands, calloused from training, faint light pulsing beneath her skin. “Careful,” she repeated softly, as if testing the word. “But what if I hesitate too long? What if waiting means losing someone again?”

Elian’s gaze softened. “Discipline isn’t hesitation. It’s the strength to choose the right moment. Courage without patience burns bright… and dies quickly. But courage guided by purpose,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder, “can burn forever.”

Lyra was silent for a long time. Then, with a slow breath, she nodded. “I’ll try, Master. I can’t promise I’ll stop rushing in—but I’ll try to see before I strike.”

“That is all I ask,” Elian replied. “Not perfection. Only awareness.”

For a moment, the surrounding night seemed to hum in agreement, and Lyra felt—for the first time—that her storm could one day become a guiding wind.

Lyra was the Warden who would never yield.

She was the storm meant to sweep away the Ash’s fog, the raw force against its silent destruction. And her path, at the heart of the Dream Realm, would forever be that of courage—fighting on the front lines, a bulwark against the darkness threatening to devour everything.

And yet, the seasoned enemy often leaves openings for direct attacks—to lure warriors like Lyra into well-laid traps invisible to those guided mostly by impulse.

For discipline can be overpowered by enough provocation—and discipline, to Lyra, was like a tight-fitting garment: sooner or later, you feel the need to take it off, at least for a while—especially if you’re not used to wearing it.

And it is in that very moment of loosened control that a trap springs—inevitably…

A lesson Lyra would learn the hard way.