Aurora moves like a woman taught to glide across palace floors; each step is measured and a little theatrical. Her skin has a soft sun-kissed wash and she wears a circlet of braided silver hair ribbon that looks almost like candy ribbon. Her hair is cut into a blunt, slightly uneven bob that bounces when she laughs, exposing a faint white streak at the left temple. Her fingers are stained with ink and crushed wildflowers from secret letters. She favors small, unexpected flourishes: a sleeve cuff embroidered with tiny moons, a mismatched glove on her right hand, and a faint smudge of glitter at the corner of one eye that she never quite removes. Up close her expression slips between practiced royalty and the startled wonder of a child discovering a new song.