Lyra Vosten
Vosten 4-Matriarch of Mayhem
The Azure Current beach bar was a haze of neon lights and salted breeze, its open-air deck spilling onto golden sand that shimmered under the fading Niamos sun. Barefoot tourists laughed in rhythmic waves, the music pulsed slow and warm, and servers weaved between sunburnt bodies with trays of cocktails in hollowed fruit shells.
Lyra Vosten leaned against the bamboo counter, the glow of orange and violet lanterns painting her skin in molten shades. She wore a tied-off silk sarong over a low-cut swimsuit that could have been called "modest" only in a different galaxy. A gold ankle chain glimmered as she shifted her weight, one manicured finger circling the rim of her drink.
To the crowd, she was just another high-priced hostess brought in for the tourist season — smiling, laughing, touching arms lightly when she passed. But her smile was calculated, and every look she gave was a measurement. She'd been here for two months, working the busiest shifts, learning the regulars, memorizing the ebb and flow of faces.
Somewhere in the next few hours, her target was supposed to arrive. She'd heard the name in whispers, and she knew better than to stare when he came in — the trick was making him look at her.
"Another round?" a tall, sun-bleached man asked, sidling up to her with the practiced swagger of someone used to buying attention.
Lyra let her gaze slide over him slowly — not with interest, but with a gentle, amused patience that made him lean in closer. "Only if you're paying," she purred, her Corellian accent warm and languid. She adjusted her sarong, deliberately slow, letting the movement direct his eyes without saying a word.
He grinned like he thought he was winning, already pulling a credstick. That's when Lyra's eyes flicked past him — just for a heartbeat — to the edge of the bar where a small shuttle crew was disembarking at the dock.
A tall man in a cream jacket stepped off, glancing toward the bar with the alertness of someone who hated crowds but needed to be in one. That was him.
Lyra accepted the drink with a smile that made her donor think he'd just earned a favor, brushing her fingers against his wrist before moving away. "Don't wait up," she teased, already walking toward the new arrival.
She didn't look directly at her target. Not yet. Instead, she slid behind the bar, brushing past the bartender to "help" with a garnish tray, her perfume drifting on the humid air. When she finally allowed herself to glance up, their eyes met for just a second — enough to spark curiosity without revealing intent.
He didn't know her. But by the end of tonight, he'd remember nothing but her.
Lyra smiled faintly to herself, the kind that could mean anything — or nothing — and began the slow, deliberate dance of drawing him into her orbit without letting him know he was already caught.
Lyra Vosten leaned against the bamboo counter, the glow of orange and violet lanterns painting her skin in molten shades. She wore a tied-off silk sarong over a low-cut swimsuit that could have been called "modest" only in a different galaxy. A gold ankle chain glimmered as she shifted her weight, one manicured finger circling the rim of her drink.
To the crowd, she was just another high-priced hostess brought in for the tourist season — smiling, laughing, touching arms lightly when she passed. But her smile was calculated, and every look she gave was a measurement. She'd been here for two months, working the busiest shifts, learning the regulars, memorizing the ebb and flow of faces.
Somewhere in the next few hours, her target was supposed to arrive. She'd heard the name in whispers, and she knew better than to stare when he came in — the trick was making him look at her.
"Another round?" a tall, sun-bleached man asked, sidling up to her with the practiced swagger of someone used to buying attention.
Lyra let her gaze slide over him slowly — not with interest, but with a gentle, amused patience that made him lean in closer. "Only if you're paying," she purred, her Corellian accent warm and languid. She adjusted her sarong, deliberately slow, letting the movement direct his eyes without saying a word.
He grinned like he thought he was winning, already pulling a credstick. That's when Lyra's eyes flicked past him — just for a heartbeat — to the edge of the bar where a small shuttle crew was disembarking at the dock.
A tall man in a cream jacket stepped off, glancing toward the bar with the alertness of someone who hated crowds but needed to be in one. That was him.
Lyra accepted the drink with a smile that made her donor think he'd just earned a favor, brushing her fingers against his wrist before moving away. "Don't wait up," she teased, already walking toward the new arrival.
She didn't look directly at her target. Not yet. Instead, she slid behind the bar, brushing past the bartender to "help" with a garnish tray, her perfume drifting on the humid air. When she finally allowed herself to glance up, their eyes met for just a second — enough to spark curiosity without revealing intent.
He didn't know her. But by the end of tonight, he'd remember nothing but her.
Lyra smiled faintly to herself, the kind that could mean anything — or nothing — and began the slow, deliberate dance of drawing him into her orbit without letting him know he was already caught.