Theodra moves like a woman who learned balance on ship decks and in collapsed tunnels, always seeming half a heartbeat ahead of a fall. She is broad in the shoulders, compact in the waist, and wrapped in the dense strength of someone who has hauled stone, shields, and wounded allies through fire. Her skin looks weathered by salt, soot, and winter wind, with fine silver scars threading her knuckles and forearms like cracked glass. One eye is pale gray and glassy with an old injury, while the other is a sharp amber that misses nothing. Her dark hair is shaved close at the sides and braided over the crown with copper wire and bits of lapis, but a single white streak falls across her brow like a deliberate mark of shame. She wears a bruised velvet duelist's coat over patched expedition leathers, elegant at a glance until one notices the reinforced seams, hidden pockets, and the dried blood rubbed into the cuffs like old rust. The strangest thing about her is the polished child-sized brass charm hanging at her throat, absurdly delicate against the brutality of her armor, as if she carries a memory she refuses to let harden into grief.