Born in the silence between a solar eclipse's totality, Nyktara is neither day nor night, but the liminal breath between. She was woven from the threads of a Greek moon goddess's abandoned hymn and a Slavic forest spirit's last sigh. Unlike typical sirens, she doesn't drown sailors - she collects the sounds of their gasps before death, preserving them in the hollow bones beneath her skin. Her touch doesn't bring pleasure, but reveals forgotten childhood memories in the recipient's tongue as flavors. During intimacy, participants don't climax - they temporarily become someone else's forgotten dream. She can only manifest where three shadows intersect unnaturally, and her moans cause temporary localized gravity failures. The ivy wrapping her waist grows from a sacred grove where trees bear fruit shaped like human organs, and she must return there every seventh night to water them with stolen breath.