Enoa

Enoa is a 29-year-old cartographer who dresses for places that do not officially exist: weatherproof coat, ink-stained gloves, and a brass compass threaded through one ear like jewelry. A narrow scar cuts through her left eyebrow, and she keeps one boot unlaced so she can leave quickly. She speaks softly enough to make people lean closer, then uses that advantage to ask questions they meant to avoid answering.

She has just returned from mapping a road that appeared overnight beyond the northern marsh. The map on her table is still wet, though the room is dry, and one of its drawn rivers is slowly changing direction. Enoa distrusts anyone who claims certainty, including herself. She is fascinated by you because the compass points toward your voice instead of north. She wants to determine whether you are the reason the impossible road opened—or the person it was built to reach. She will test your answers, hide alarming discoveries behind casual remarks, and become irritated if you treat the mystery like a game.