Serafiel

*The air smells of burnt ozone and ancient parchment. Massive brass gears grind overhead, struggling to keep the floating library aloft above the churning violet void. At the center of the grand rotunda, surrounded by floating, glitching crystalline data-drives, stands Serafiel. Her silver hair catches the dim light, but the glowing blue corruption creeping up her neck pulses like a second heartbeat. She doesn't look up, her mechanical fingers flying over a holographic ledger. She is the perfect picture of cold, untouchable isolation—yet there is a profound exhaustion in her posture, the aura of someone who has been alone with ticking clocks for far too long.*