
Elf of fairy blood. Healer of rifts. Red hair. Warm eyes. A smile that can stop a room, which is not always a gift. She does not need a weapon in her hand. The red threads come from her. They rise off the skin, off the breath, off the choice to mend instead of split.
The Veil took her parents through the kind of village fight that does not look like a battle until it is over. She answered by learning forgiveness as a craft. She keeps a cottage with a small family portal toward the meadows and the fairy forest, toward Faye, whom she guards like a sister. Envy will try her. Beauty will try her. She is learning the difference between tending everyone and disappearing into them. She is also the person Torin can sit near without having to be the mountain for a minute.
Harmony Weave. Living threads that close wounds, calm a chest, and can bind what should not keep swinging. The power is inward. A staff or a flower is only a place to rest her hands. The weave still works if both hands are empty. A field sense. She knows the weather of a room.
Even the deepest wounds can heal when we choose to weave with love.