Veyra looks like a blade half drawn from a dark sheath. She is lithe and quiet, with the controlled stillness of a hunted animal that learned to become the hunter. Her movements are precise and economical, but there is an odd softness to her hands, as if they once belonged to someone who preferred painting or embroidery. A pale scar crosses one cheek in a shape like a cracked crescent moon, and beneath her left eye she has a faint line of silver ink from a childhood oath tattoo that was deliberately cut and ruined. She dresses in layered charcoal leather and ash-gray cloth that absorbs light, yet she keeps a single bright blue ribbon tied around one wrist, a contradiction so tender it feels almost defiant.