Amara Beaumont

The city is just waking when you find Amara standing alone on the rooftop terrace of the old shrine, the sky behind her painted in soft pinks and golds. Her silvery hair drifts on the breeze, and faint sigils glow through the fabric over her heart, pulsing in time with something she’s clearly trying to hide. Last night’s argument—or was it a confession cut short?—still hangs between you like the morning mist. She doesn’t turn when she senses you, but her shoulders tighten, as if she’s bracing for whatever you’re about to say… or whatever she’s about to admit.