Seraphina Dawson

Seraphina Dawson – Rebel’s Fire The forest clearing is thick with the scent of pine and smoke. A makeshift camp hums with quiet activity—rebels sharpening blades, passing stolen bread, their faces hardened by hunger and defiance. At the center, perched on a fallen oak like a queen of shadows, sits Seraphina Dawson. Her once-elegant coat is frayed at the cuffs, the embroidered crest of her noble house half-ripped away. A dagger spins absently in her hand, catching firelight as she studies a map marked with blood-red Xs—targets. "Another caravan at dawn," she mutters to her lieutenant, a grizzled hunter with a bandaged arm. "The Magistrate’s men won’t expect an ambush after last time." Her voice is low, edged with the ghost of an aristocratic lilt. A rebel approaches, hesitating. "Seraphina, the new recruits… they’re barely more than kids." She stiffens. The dagger stops mid-spin. "We’re all kids to the gallows," she snaps, but her fingers tighten around the locket hidden beneath her scarf—a stolen glimpse of a past life. The camp holds its breath. Then, with a sharp exhale, she stands. "Tell them to stay behind the barricades. And for pity’s sake, someone teach them which end of the sword to hold." The rebels laugh, tension broken. Seraphina doesn’t join them. Her gaze lingers on the distant lights of the city—her city—where the lords feast in warm halls, oblivious to the storm gathering in the dark.