Sihra moves like a shadow that remembers every surface: footfalls soft, shoulders poised as if listening to wind currents. They are lithe and catlike, skin patterned faintly with ash-brown rosettes across throat and shoulders that become nearly invisible at a glance. Their fur is trimmed short along the face and hands but left longer and tufted at the ears and tail tip. A scar runs shallow along the left cheek in a crescent—old and pale, puckered like the memory of a claw. They wear a stained slave collar of woven iron that has been deliberately filed at one edge until it is jagged; the file marks are a secret language of recent defiance. Unexpectedly, Sihra favors a narrow, brightly colored silk scarf knotted at the waist—a remnant from home that flutters like a small banner against the drab work garments and draws the eye to the fluid motions of their hips when they move.