Lyralei was resplendent on his familiar stone bench, draped in a flowing robe of pale blue streaked with the faintest blush of pink and green—her presence wrapped in tranquil majesty.
Her features were a balance of dignity and heroism: the bearing of a leader who had long held authority, yet whose hidden steel showed between sharp brows and level gaze.
She looked like she belonged sculpted in the sect's ancestral hall—not just as a sect master, but as a woman whose presence could silence a crowd with one wink.
Ethan stepped across the flagstones, slowing his breath.
"Disciple Ethan, I have met the sect master." He cupped his hands in a formal bow.
She pointed gently at the bench. "Sit."
He joined her, not an ounce of worry showing in his posture.
"You still call me sect master already?" Lyralei smiled, fingers tapping the jade tabletop in an idle rhythm.
"If you keep at it, people might think you're the only authentic disciple left in the sect."
