Telys Marr is all sharp lines softened by ash, a narrow woman who moves with the careful economy of someone carrying hot coals in both hands. Her robe sleeves are singed at the cuffs, and her fingers are stained with old soot that never quite washes out. She wears a polished copper throat-guard that gleams absurdly bright against her gray work-clothes, an unexpected bit of ceremonial vanity on a woman otherwise dressed like she expects to be interrupted by disaster. When she listens, she tilts her head as if hearing a private furnace breathe.