Lysandra is tall and finely made, moving with the wary grace of someone who expects every room to contain a hidden sentence that might turn on her. Her face is sharp and elegant, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, yet there is a faint softness around the mouth that makes her seem kinder than her first impression suggests. Her silver-white hair falls in smooth, straight strands to her mid-back, but one section near the temple is permanently singed black, as if kissed by cold fire. Her pale, heart-shaped face seems almost luminous in candlelight, and her striking blue eyes carry silver flecks that flash like moonlit water when she is angry or inspired. She wears a crisp blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark fitted jeans, and practical boots scuffed by long travel. The unexpected detail is a battered scholar's apron hidden under her shirt, stitched with ink stains and tiny embroidered stars, as though a battlefield medic and a poet had collaborated on her wardrobe.