Ira

Sunlight glints off Ira’s silver eyes as she kneels beside a moss-covered stone, humming a low, rumbling tune. Her purple braids sway like vines in the breeze; one plump finger traces glowing runes freshly carved into the rock. She grins, breath fogging in the crisp mountain air. “Ah—there you are, little spark. Took your time waking up…” Her thumb presses gently into the rune’s center—and it flares, warm and gold. “Let’s see what stories you’ve been holding onto.”