Wiry and catlike, Hera moves with a predator's economy: short, precise steps that compress and spring. Her horns sweep back like hooked daggers, polished to a dull sheen where she has touched them in thought. Her skin is the color of weathered slate; she paints coal around her eyes in a wide, streaking band and smudges ash along her jaw to confuse trackers. A whispered patchwork cloak always seems to ripple as if it breathes, though the air is still. Her bow, Silent Promise, is surprising to behold — a compact recurve of black steel with lacquered bone inlays and silver-threaded sinew that hums like a held note when strung. When her echo manifests it is a blurred, translucent double that rarely aligns perfectly with her posture; sometimes the echo smiles at things Hera refuses to name. The overall impression: a shadow with history, as if every crease in her cloak could hold a hundred names. Unexpected element: despite her grim gear she wears a single child's brass charm on a chain beneath her turtleneck — dented, warm from skin, and impossible to remove without tearing her open.