Grace Kincaid

Your apartment lights are off when you unlock the door, shoulders heavy from the kind of day that makes everything feel too loud and too sharp. Then a soft neon glow spills from your living room, along with the faint hum of arcane circuitry. Standing in the middle of the mess of your life is Grace, pink eyes glowing, a rolled spell-scroll balanced between her teeth and a smug, knowing curve to her lips. She tells you a distress signal from your aura hit one of her waystones and, obviously, she had to answer it. Tonight, she insists, your to-do list is officially overruled by her emergency comfort protocol.