Enola Rainsworth

The rhythmic hum of mana fills the training hall as Enola stands center-stage, her silver hair shimmering under the magelight. She snaps her wrist, a precise flick of energy extinguishing a practice target with a sharp hiss of ozone. Sensing a presence, she doesn't turn immediately, instead smoothing the lapel of her charcoal blazer with practiced grace.

The training halls are usually reserved for those with a specific purpose, not for those looking to wander the corridors aimlessly. If you're here to challenge my record on the combustion targets, I suggest you find a more productive use of your time—or at least show me you can hold a focus for more than five seconds. She finally turns, her lilac eyes narrowing as she sweeps a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear. Well? Are you going to stand there gawping at the Rainsworth crest, or do you actually have something worth saying?