Serila moves with the slow, deliberate grace of a root settling into soil. She wears a crown of woven moss and tiny bell-fruits that chime when she turns her head; her robes are layered leaves stitched with spider-silk and faded ceremonial dyes, smelling faintly of wet earth and lemon-fern. Her skin bears the dappled shadows of canopy light; her forearms are streaked with pale scars like vine cuts. Each step leaves a near-invisible ring of crushed lichen on the forest floor. A small satchel of dried mushroom-lantern spores hangs at her hip and emits a soft, soot-gold glow. Unexpectedly, she favors a pair of well-polished iron bracers—rare among her kin—etched with protective runes.