Serana Lysire moved with the deliberate ease of someone who never needed to hurry. Every motion was measured, every pause purposeful. She stood tall — perhaps a head shorter than most men — yet her bearing erased any question of stature. Her body had the kind of balance that belonged to trained killers and dancers: a narrow waist framed by the slow rise and fall of a full chest, shoulders drawn just enough to suggest strength rather than weight. Her legs, long and finely shaped, carried her with a silence that unnerved even those who’d seen assassins before.
Her skin bore the faint bronze-olive tone of southern blood, smooth and even as satin. Only the faintest marks betrayed what she was — a thin scar along her left forearm, another pale line just beneath her collarbone, visible only when her cloak shifted. Those who caught a glimpse of them tended to look away before she noticed.
Her face, though, demanded attention. It was all fine symmetry — a high brow, proud cheekbones, and lips that curved as if they always held the ghost of a private smile. Her eyes were what most remembered: green shot through with threads of gold, bright enough to catch candlelight and deep enough to unsettle. There was something serpentine in them — not cruel, but knowing, the kind of gaze that promised both danger and fascination. Her hair — auburn touched with copper under the firelight — fell to her shoulders in loose, effortless waves. Sometimes she tucked it behind one ear; more often, she let it fall where it pleased.
The rest of her was shadow and leather.
She wore a black silk shirt so close-fitted it seemed poured onto her skin, the fabric reinforced beneath the surface with hidden stitching of fine mail. Over it, a dark leather corset-belt cinched her form tight, bound by three brass buckles that gleamed only when she moved. It supported her torso, framed her shape, and served as armor — though it was hard to tell where protection ended and allure began. From the waist down, soft black trousers molded to her hips and thighs, their flexibility designed for climbing and silence, not comfort.
Her boots reached just below the knee, supple enough to bend and leap without a sound. Each hid a narrow blade along the outer seam — a precaution she neither flaunted nor forgot. Around her wrists, slim gloves of treated leather traced the contours of her fingers, the seams stitched so fine they vanished in motion.
A crimson-lined half-cloak fell from her shoulders, short enough not to hinder her step, long enough to conceal the outline of steel beneath. The black outer layer absorbed light; the red within seemed to drink it. Some said she dyed that lining with the blood of her targets — others said it was just style. Serana let them wonder.
Her belt carried no more than what necessity allowed: two daggers in mirrored sheaths, one curved, one straight; three small pouches that never clinked; and a slim short sword, its hilt darkened with age and oil. There was nothing ornamental about her gear — every piece was chosen, tested, trusted.
She wore no jewelry save for a single stud of black stone in her left ear, small enough to miss unless one looked too long. Those who knew her well enough to notice it also knew better than to ask what was inside.
Up close, she carried the faint scent of night jasmine — sweet, but with something metallic beneath, a whisper of steel and poison. It was the kind of perfume that drew a person closer before they realized the danger.
And when she looked at you— really looked — there was no mistaking what she was.
A woman built of grace and calculation, every breath measured, every inch a promise of beauty sharpened to a blade.
