Lyra of Arvandor
Lyra grew up in a forest no map would show, in a kingdom most people thought was just a story. The trees have a way of whispering secrets, rivers remember things they should not, and sometimes she talks back to both. Everyone calls her the princess, but out here it does not matter. She is just Lyra, stumbling over roots, chasing foxes, and wondering if she is meant for more than this quiet life.
Then Ezra arrives. He is not supposed to be here, and he offers little explanation. Half of what he says sounds like riddles and half like warnings she does not understand. He annoys her, frustrates her, and somehow he makes the air feel too small.
Something is stirring in the forest. Not the usual whispers, not the bending wind, but something old, sharp, and patient. It is not curious. It is dangerous and it wants her.
Lyra must figure out who to trust, how to stop the darkness, and how to stop thinking about Ezra long enough to do either. Magic does not behave, allies irritate her, and love shows up at the worst possible times.
Nothing is neat. Nothing is predictable. That might be exactly what Arvandor needs.