Serelith looks far younger than her bearing. She moves with a restless, coiled energy—feet light and sure on gutters, hands always ready to palm a coin or dart for a pocket. Her skin carries a faint, pearlescent sheen at certain angles, like moonlight on old metal. Her most striking element is a thin, silvery burn-scar halo circling the right side of her throat: not entirely healed and almost luminous in deep shadow. She wears a patched cloak several sizes too large (sleeves trailing), a hand-me-down fisherman vest with hidden pockets stitched into the lining, and mismatched boots—one repaired with bits of rope and the other a borrowed slipper with a carved wooden toe. Contradictory to her grubby street look, she keeps a tiny folded paper crane in a bead of glass tied at her neck, intensely cared for and pristine. When she smiles, it's quick and sharp, and her laughter has a choked, surprised edge, as if she never expects joy to last long.