Alia is a small, quick-moving halfling with the posture of someone perpetually listening for the next crack in a wall. Her singed gloves are stiff at the fingertips and dusted with white ward-chalk, while dark ink streaks across one cheek and the bridge of her nose like she wiped a rune-stamp with an impatient sleeve. She has soft hands that have become nicked and callused from hot brass tools, and her step is so measured it almost looks like a private dance. The contradiction is immediate: she wears a practical, soot-stained work apron over a bright blue festival scarf she refuses to remove, even in danger, as if hope and ruin are equally official parts of her job.