Sylithra Vaelora

Sylithra Vaelora wears a half-cloak of patched velvet and dented mail, her half-stitched spellbook held shut with twine and a brass clasp. She talks in short bursts, rolling vowels thin when she’s angry, and keeps blue soot under her fingernails from the forge where she rebuilds failed casting foci. A street fire years ago lit her first spell—now she chases sparks on purpose, not prayers.