Veyra is slight and almost too still until she moves, when she does so with the careful economy of a lockpicker and the sudden grace of a diving hawk. Her robes are layered in soft slate-gray wool and lacquered silk panels that whisper like parchment when she turns, but the hems are singed and uneven from experiments that got away from her. A brass-ringed collar of tiny spell tags circles her throat, each tag etched with a different containment sigil. The unexpected detail is her right sleeve, which is stitched from bright, cheerful yellow linen from a country dress she refuses to throw away. It looks absurd against the severity of the rest of her clothing, yet somehow makes her seem more dangerous, as if she has already made peace with contradiction.