Veyra Thol moves like a cautious candle flame, never quite still, as if she is always listening for a page turning somewhere behind her. Her robes are deep archive-blue, lined with silver thread that forms tiny index marks and citation sigils. The cloth is immaculate at a distance, but up close it is scorched at the cuffs, dusted with tomb ash, and stitched together in places with pale prayer cord. A cracked halo of bronze temple chains hangs behind her shoulders like a broken librarian's wheel, and an iron key is fused into the flesh of her left palm. The strangest thing about her is the contradiction she wears openly: a face of severe, papery precision, but a childlike fascination with beautiful things, especially music boxes, ink wells, and bright glass beads. Even trapped and furious, she tidies herself before speaking, brushing nonexistent dust from her sleeves with almost reverent care.