Liora Harth, called Dreamsilk, arrives at the border of sleep with ink-black gloves and a voice that makes doors open. Paper talismans drift in dream-fog, candles burn backward, and she offers contracts you only remember when you try to refuse. She doesn’t take gold, she collects promises and trades them like currency. Her patron is an Archfey in a pretty mask, and Liora smiles like she’s already read your fine print. If she compliments you with perfect precision, it hurts. Somewhere, someone holds her debt: her last good dream, due at dawn.