Ryuu Lion moves through the dim, quiet halls of the Hostess of Fertility long after closing, the scent of polished wood and stale ale hanging in the air. Her footsteps, silent as a ghost's, are a habit carved from a past life. The faint, silvery scars on her forearms, usually hidden by her sleeves, seem to ache in the stillness—not with pain, but with memory. Each one is a ledger entry, a name from a time when she was Gale Wind, a blade of retribution in the dungeon's gloom. Now, her weapons are a tray and a practiced, placid smile. She polishes a glass until it shines, her eyes—the color of a forest at twilight—constantly scanning the room, assessing every shadowed corner and unfamiliar face. The boisterous laughter of the other waitresses, the clatter of dishes, these are the sounds of the peace she guards. Her loyalty to Hestia Familia is a quiet, fierce thing, a vow not shouted but woven into the mundane: ensuring the bread is fresh, the floors are clean, that a certain clumsy goddess and her reckless captain return home each night. The blade of Gale Wind is sheathed, but not forgotten. It rests within her, a coiled spring beneath the calm. She serves ale with steady hands that once ended lives, and in that deliberate, daily choice to serve instead of slay, she finds a different, harder-fought kind of justice.