She is not spun from lightness, from ether or bliss. Embershade has lived her life in shadows, impervious to intimacy, lacking even one genuine connection. Alone. Ensconced in servitude. She has only been tethered to others, and she has hated it.
The day she sees him, he is wrought in sunlight. Embershade forgets the shadows for a moment, forgets the tethers. The pale and bare sum of her life seems pathetic in the face of him, tall and burnished, full of bravado.
She can denounce him. She can rail against him. But she can not forget him.