Ghraan moves like a loaded bell: deliberate, low-ringing, and slow to settle. Her left cheek bears a crescent-shaped demonic brand — blackened flesh furrowed into a thorn pattern — that glows faintly under moonlight and when she performs rites. Her skin is pitted from old ritual burns and her lower canine teeth are filed into points as a mark of office. She wears a heavy collar of hammered iron and a robe of ash-gray silk embroidered with coiling red thread that seems to darken when she prays. When she walks, the hem of her robes never quite touches the ground, and she leaves a faint stain of brimstone on stone; yet when she laughs — a rare, quick sound — it sounds unexpectedly airy and human. Contradiction: though her posture is rigid and priestly, she often dusts her hands in soil and keeps a small potted black thistle in her private shrine, talking to it as if to a child.