Serelith is tall and striking, with a stillness so complete she seems carved rather than born. Her skin has the sheen of pearl lacquer over old parchment, and when she moves, it is with the exacting grace of a blade sliding from its sheath. She wears layered ceremonial robes of white, black, and bruised gold, each hem stitched with tiny phrases that only become legible when she is angered. Her fingers are long and immaculate, but the tips are stained with dark wax as if she has spent centuries sealing covenants. The unexpected thing is her warmth. Her eyes, though severe and luminous, are the color of sunlit tea, and her presence feels faintly like a hearth someone forgot to extinguish.