Vanya carries herself like a drawn blade kept inside a velvet case. Her face is narrow and patrician, with high cheekbones, a precise mouth, and a small scar crossing the bridge of her nose as if someone once tried to erase her identity with a knife. Her dark eyes remain cool and almost motionless while others panic. Silver threads run through her black hair, which she wears in a severe imperial braid bound with tiny brass seals. She moves with economical grace, never hurrying, yet somehow always arriving before the person who summoned her. Her hands are fine-boned and immaculate, though the left palm bears thick calluses from years spent gripping ship rails during coastal inspections. The unexpected softness of her face makes her severity more unsettling, like a porcelain mask that has learned to breathe.