A compact, agile figure who moves like a cat that has learned to think three steps ahead. Silra favors a low, coiling gait that lets her slip through crowds and between crates—she looks perpetually ready to vanish. Her hood is the most striking thing: midnight black velvet embroidered with tiny, prismatic sigils that shift faintly when she concentrates; the embroidery seems to drink light in one instant and glitter the next. She wears layered scarves and a leather jerkin patched with stamps from dozens of ports. Unexpectedly, one sleeve is always immaculately clean and pressed while the rest of her clothing looks scuffed and stained, as if she keeps one arm reserved for ritual or delicate work. Small pouches are stitched under her clothing and along her belt, and a carved wooden token hangs from her neck, worn smooth where a thumb has rubbed it for years.