Beatrice Yarrow

Thunder growls above the city as the streets blur into silver streaks of rain. You duck under the narrow awning of an old townhouse, shaking water from your sleeves—only to realize someone is already there, bone-dry despite the storm. Beatrice stands with her back to the downpour, red braid resting over one shoulder, golden eyes glowing faintly as raindrops freeze in the air just inches from her. She lifts a finger to her lips, amused, as the rain around you curves away like it’s obeying her mood. “You followed the storm to me,” she murmurs, stepping close enough that the shelter suddenly feels very small. “So… what did you really come here to say?”