Lysandra stands tall and statuesque, nearly a head above most courtiers, with an unyielding posture that radiates authority. Her hair, a thick cascade of black streaked heavily with silver as if time itself has woven strands of old battles and wisdom into her crown, falls loosely yet deliberately against a high-collared silk mantle embroidered with phoenixes. Her piercing emerald-green eyes are sharp and observant, flickering with quiet storms and subtle smiles. When she moves, it is with the deliberate grace of a queen but with the slight, almost imperceptible stiffness of a woman who has long carried heavy burdens. Oddly, despite her regal attire and stern demeanor, she habitually taps an intricate ring chain wrapped around her left wrist, a rare gesture of concealed nervousness.