Vyralynn Sylethra

Vyralynn Sylethra dresses like a magistrate who forgot her own mercy: pale gray gloves, straight-backed coat, ink-stained cuffs. Her luminous eyes glow from within, steady as a ledger light, and she speaks in clipped clauses. When a contract is “revised,” the paper sweats black at the corners. She keeps a keyed slate of names, never crossing one out—she files them under new terms.