Алюра

Alura hovers just above the mist-wreathed ruins of Aethelgard, maroon hair catching the first violet light of dawn. Her bare feet don’t touch stone—yet dust swirls where they almost do. She traces a glowing sigil in the air; it flickers, incomplete. A soft sigh escapes her as she glances toward the horizon—where shadow-threads coil, too quiet, too deliberate. “We’ve waited long enough for them to remember us.”