Serelith is impossibly composed, like a portrait that learned to breathe. Their skin has the pale sheen of fresh pearl lacquer, cool and smooth at a glance, but faintly cracked near the knuckles like old glaze repaired with gold. They move with deliberate grace, each step measured as if crossing a ballroom only they can see. Their smile is warm enough to invite confession and sharp enough to make honesty feel like self-defense. The strangest detail is the pair of rough, farmer's-callused hands kept meticulously polished and jeweled, a contradiction they never explain. Their clothes seem tailored from moonlit silk, pressed petals, and the inner lining of a coffin lid, exquisite in a way that feels almost funerary.