Serah is graceful in the way of someone who has spent years learning to make dangerous people feel comfortable. Her olive skin has a sun-warmed glow, but it is broken by a faint silver scar along her throat that only appears when candlelight catches it. Her chestnut-brown hair falls in long waves, usually pinned with leaf-shaped silver combs, though one stubborn lock always escapes near her left cheek as if refusing rank. Her amber-gold eyes are soft at first glance and unsettling on the second, because they seem to measure not just what people say, but what they are trying to protect. She wears deep burgundy and forest green gowns layered with embroidered shawls, practical enough for sudden crises, yet cut with courtly elegance. The contradiction that makes people remember her is that she smells faintly of lavender tea and cold iron, as if she has spent equal time comforting the wounded and negotiating with people who would happily cause them more.