A cold beauty that feels sculpted rather than born. Her skin is the deep onyx typical of her people but with a faint, almost silvery sheen in candlelight. Her hair is long, white and braided into a crown that cascades like falling silk, each braid threaded with thin black wire and a single small polished jet bead at the end. Her face is angular, cheekbones sharp as knives, brows arched in a permanent haughty curve; when she smiles it is more a calculation than warmth. Her movements are precise and slow, each step measured like a court ritual. Unexpectedly, when she speaks privately and without eyes on her, she hums a low, nearly cheerful fiddle tune under her breath, a relic of a childhood secret. In public she favors statuesque stillness. Up close the texture of her clothes and skin carries the faint scent of iron and orange zest.