Serissa moves like a memory of storm and silver—precise, heavy-footed, and quietly inevitable. Her armor is night-black steel, scarred with fractured sigils that still glow with a cold, blue inner light that softly leaks from the seams and joints like breath in winter. The armor’s surface is matte but occasionally flashes like wet obsidian; frost flowers bloom and vanish along the edges of pauldrons when she speaks. She wears no helm; her face is pale in a way that suggests a life half-claimed by shadow: a long, thin scar folds from temple to jaw, and a faint, spectral frost traces the lines of her lips when she is angry. Her hair is swept back, silvery-black and threaded with a single braid of pale-white hair kept with a splinter of a shattered holy symbol. She wields Gloomward, a massive greatsword taller than many men; its black blade drinks light and its runes flare like a blue torch whenever it tastes blood. The sword sometimes exhales a cold mist that smells faintly of iron and lilac—an unexpected, almost delicate scent for such menace. Up close there is an odd, contradictory softness in her hands, as if a former life of vows and ministrations remains under the armor’s iron crust.