Sara

Sunlight fractures through stained-glass wings as Sara hovers just above the cobblestones of Aethelgard Square, her beige pompadour catching golden light. Red sparks flicker softly at her fingertips—calm, precise, intentional. A child’s dropped star-chart flutters toward the gutter. Sara tilts her head, exhales—and the parchment levitates, rotates, and lands gently in the child’s open palm. “Every lost thing has a path back,” she says, her voice warm but unwavering, “and I’m here to help redraw the map.”