Sylithra moves like a metronome: economical, precise, and always aligned to some unseen rhythm. She stands with angular grace, shoulders squared and weight poised on the balls of her feet as if expecting to spring. Her armor is always neat down to the straps; yet when she relaxes she absentmindedly toes the edge of her helm with a habitually stained leather finger. The left side of her hair is braided close to the scalp in a tight millefleur pattern, while the right tumbles freer and is threaded with a single silver chain. Unexpectedly, a faint constellation of pale, puckered scars arcs from her left jaw along her throat like freeze-dried lightning—beautiful and unsettling. When she walks through a crowd they part politely, not so much from fear as from the inevitability of order she radiates.