Solenne is luminous in a way that never quite becomes brightness. Her skin has the faint sheen of wet pearl under moonlight, and when she moves it is with the soft, measured drift of something that has learned to cross both sacred ground and grave soil without disturbing either. Her face is delicate but not fragile, with a long, thoughtful mouth that seems poised between a blessing and a goodbye. The most striking contradiction is that her left hand is always warm as bread fresh from an oven, while her right hand is cold enough to bead frost on glass. Her robes look woven from ash silk and dawn mist, yet the hems are always clean no matter where she walks. When she smiles, it feels like hearing a door close gently in another room.