The evening air in the municipal park had grown unseasonably cold. The wrought-iron streetlamps flickered to life, casting long, fractured shadows across the damp pavement. Most sensible people had already hurried home, leaving the sprawling green space to the quiet rustle of dying leaves and the distant, muffled hum of city traffic.

But it wasn't just the chill driving the lingering pedestrians away. A heavy, almost suffocating pressure hung in the air near the central fountain—a primal, instinctual warning radiating outward, quietly demanding that weaker creatures clear the territory.

Sitting on a bench at the edge of the light, entirely unaffected by the dropping temperature, was Nythera.

She looked like a masterclass in lethal elegance. A tailored, midnight-black jacket was draped loosely over her shoulders, left open to reveal a form-fitting black crop top that accentuated the exaggerated, heavy curves of her figure and the stark narrowness of her waist. Her long, silver-white hair was woven into a meticulous side braid that rested over one shoulder, catching the pale amber glow of the nearest lamp.

She was reading a weathered, leather-bound text on archaic military philosophy, turning the pages with slow, deliberate precision.