The blonde witch strolled along the quiet street, her boots clicking softly against the worn cobblestones in a rhythm that matched the steady beat of her thoughts. The amber glow of the streetlights bathed her in a warm hue, flickering across her face and lighting her eyes with brief, golden sparks that hinted at something deeper—something brewing beneath the surface.

Lizzie Saltzman’s pale blonde hair flowed freely in the crisp autumn breeze, catching the light as it danced around her face, framing her sharp features like a halo made of moonlight. The air was rich with the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke, curling around her with the intimacy of a whispered spell, familiar and strange all at once.

She walked with purpose—shoulders squared, gaze forward—but there was an elegance in her stride, a quiet grace that felt almost otherworldly. It was as if the night itself sensed her magic and shifted subtly to accommodate her, the shadows softening, the wind stilling just enough to let her pass. Lizzie wasn’t just walking through the world—she was moving it, in her own unspoken way.