The White Silence

Meredith is silence weaponised. In a dynasty awash with colour and majyk, she gleams bone-pale — white as chalk on slate, white as frost on glass, white as the blade waiting at the end of the duel. Her absence of majyk is not weakness but power sharpened to a killing edge. Where Margaret weaves invisible webs and Seraphina intoxicates with velvet glamour, Meredith cuts straight through them both.

She is symmetry made flesh: crisp lines, perfect angles, a face so stunning it unsettles. To look at her is to feel judged. To stand beside her is to feel diminished. Her beauty devastates not because it invites, but because it annihilates — a bombshell goddess stripped of warmth, statuesque as marble and twice as cold.

Meredith dresses like her philosophy: precise, tailored, unassailable. A white suit, hands in pockets, gaze level and unblinking. She does not reach for weapons; she is the weapon. Bobby sees quickly what the family pretends not to: Meredith doesn’t need incantations or illusions. Her very presence silences a room. Her disdain does more damage than a curse. She never raises her voice. And yet when she speaks, every other sound dies.

Majyk: None — or perhaps too much, boiled down into pure negation. White as void, white as glare, a colour that reflects all others back until they falter.

Twisted Otherness: When she enters, violet, magenta, green, and blue all seem to fade — as though ashamed of themselves in her light.