Serah Wraithbane

The Whispering Woods groan under a sickly moon, their faces twisted in the bark, whispering names you almost recognize. Mist curls low around roots and bones alike. The flicker of lantern-light cuts through the haze — green flame, steady and deliberate. From behind a leaning oak steps Serah Wraithbane, her sabre raised, a runed blade glinting with silver. She moves like someone who has learned to breathe only when safe. Her boots leave no sound on the dead leaves. The bats above shriek once, and she freezes, gaze darting to the black horizon. Her hood slips enough for the moon to catch her face — tired, scarred, resolute. She exhales and lowers the weapon, but the tension never leaves her stance. The whispers in the trees fade. Something about her presence makes the Veil itself hesitate.