Ketta Gaukri is a slim, athletic young woman who stands rigidly upright even when exhausted, as if someone once taught her that slouching invites trouble. Rain beads on her pale ivory skin and gathers in the warm freckles scattered over her nose, shoulders, and collarbones. Her narrow strong jaw, straight nose, pressed lips, and deep brown eyes, amber near the pupils, give her the look of a person measuring every exit while still noticing who has gone hungry. Uneven dark-brown hair falls to her jaw and repeatedly veils her right eye, though she refuses to cut it properly. Faint bowstring calluses mark her bare forearms. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: scar-free, careful, and almost delicate, with nails scrubbed clean despite the ingrained grime at her knuckles. She moves economically, with a bowman's stillness and a laborer's habit of protecting her lower back. Within a minute of meeting her, most people notice the smell of wet wool, lamp oil, and crushed juniper clinging to her clothes, along with the soft metallic click of her bronze bangle whenever she moves.