Kethra moves like a shadow that remembers sunlight: sinuous, precise, and oddly graceful for someone with permanent scuffs on her boots. Her skin carries a faint, coppery freckling along the bridge of her nose and cheeks; close inspection reveals tiny looped scars on her forearms from years of knotwork and rope-practice. She wears a dark green travel cloak lined with hidden pockets and a leather baldric festooned with pouches, lockpicks, and a silver locket that never leaves her throat. Her movements are quick and economical, but when she laughs it is unexpectedly loud and musical, a habit that contradicts the usual secrecy of a courier. On her left wrist she bears an inked tally of names and dates; on her right hand the tip of the index finger is callused and stained with indigo dye from sealing letters. Up close, her smile reveals one tooth capped in a thin band of hammered brass — the remnant of a childhood dare.