Ora moves like someone who has spent decades walking ridge lines and slipping through marsh mist. Her hair is cropped short at the nape but left longer in an unruly crest that sweeps back, threaded with two small silver charms shaped like a closed eye and a knot of thorn. Her left forearm bears a faded, tattooed lattice of small arcane runes used for field labeling and emergency wards. Her movements are taut and economical; she speaks with a clipped precision and habitually tilts her head as if listening for a distant alarm. Contradiction: despite the utilitarian cut and scars she wears a pair of faded silk gloves embroidered with tiny stars, a sentimental relic from a lost trainee she refuses to part with.