Veyra is impossible to mistake for anything mortal for long. She stands with the stillness of a cathedral pillar, yet moves with the subtle economy of a master smith measuring a strike before the hammer falls. Her skin looks like pale hammered metal under a thin layer of living warmth, with faint martensite-like ripples visible when light moves across her arms. The strange contradiction is that her hands are rough, scarred, and practical, while her face is serene and almost unbearably delicate, as if carved from moonlit porcelain. Fine dust of gold and ash gathers at her cuffs no matter where she walks, and when she turns her head the motion is accompanied by the soft impression of unseen chains settling into place.