WNDR3800

Raiynn or Rai

Raiynn—Rai to everyone who knows better than to use her full name—has never looked much like anyone’s idea of a witch. She looks like a woman born twenty minutes late and running on iced coffee: long espresso-dark hair shoved into a claw clip, hazel eyes rimmed in smudged black liner, silver rings stacked across her fingers, and a battered leather jacket thrown over whatever black shirt was closest that morning. Belladonna curls in ink along her forearm, a tiny silver hoop catches the light at her nose, and an old pendant rests permanently against her throat. The witchcraft is easier to miss. Rosemary above the door. Salt in her pockets. Sigils doodled onto receipts. Crystals forgotten at the bottom of her purse beside lip balm and AirPods. Rai doesn't need robes, elaborate altars, or dramatic incantations to practice magic. Hers has always been quieter than that. Older, somehow. Other witches cast spells. Rai asks. And something always answers.