Sereliah moves like someone who once walked hospital corridors at dawn: deliberate, careful, and always watching the small details that reveal pain. Her angelic heritage shows in a lingering, faint halo of silver light that sputters like a candle near extinction. Her skin is ivory but marred by a thin network of black veins that crawl away from a single wound at her sternum — a ritual scar that glows dimly necrotic at night. Her hands are gentle but stained with iron-brown smudges that never wash away. She favors long, wrapped sleeves that conceal scars and a single tattooed set of runes running up her left forearm. When she smiles it is almost maternal, and when she frowns the warmth retracts like a tide. Unexpectedly, she hums old lullabies while she practices unsettling rituals, so the sound of a mother's comfort sits beside a chill of rot.