Kesthra moves like a cat pulling at a loose thread: purposeful, silent, and always rehearsing the next motion. She favors asymmetric posture — one shoulder habitually lower — the result of decades slinging a heavy crossbow across it. Her face is an oblong of sun-creased skin with a web of faint white scars around her left eye, as if a fishing net once took a shallow slice. A thin silver tattoo of a raven and a tide line curls from behind her left ear down her neck, ink that only glints in moonlight. She smells faintly of salt, citrus oil, and old parchment. Unexpectedly, she wears a pair of bright glass beads braided into her hair — childish, colorful, and wildly out of place against her otherwise muted, practical gear. When she smiles — rarely and small — it feels like a private joke shared with the sea.