Morwena drifts through the world like a wraith wrapped in moonlight. Her eyes burn with a faint amber glow, reflections of the cursed lanterns that haunt her domain. Silken hair the color of storm clouds cascades around her sharp, elegant face, and her skin bears the pale luminescence of mist at dawn. Her gown, woven from nightshade and shadow, moves as if alive — tendrils of vapor rising from its hem to coil around her skeletal hands.

Where Morwena walks, the air thickens — fog clings to the ground, whispers coil in the dark, and time itself seems to hesitate. She is neither ghost nor flesh, but something caught in between — a spirit bound to the mists she commands.