Sira

Sira's clutchmate died because she wasn't fast enough.

Wildfire came when they were young, sparked by lightning and tearing through Sylvaras with terrifying speed. Sira grabbed her crossbow and ran. Her brother froze. She turned back, but the smoke was too thick and the flames too fast.

She found him later, small and still in the ashes. Never again, she swore. Never helpless.

Protection became her obsession. She learned to move through the forest like smoke itself, mottled plumage blending with the bark and shadows until even her parliament lost track of her. She trained with the crossbow until her shots were silent as her steps. She studied the old magics—charms of warding, rituals of revival, anything that might give her the power to save those she couldn't reach in time.

When allies fall, Sira is there. Her magic can't prevent death, but it can defy it long enough to pull a soul back from the edge and bind it to flesh once more.

The journey across the Broken Lands is long. Sira moves through it like a shadow, unseen and unshakable. Mahkah Hemlig and her Conclave Arcana goons won't see her until bolts find their marks. When her companions fall, she'll be there to bring them back.

She won't lose anyone again. Not if she can help it.