Rector Maelis Thorn looks as if she has spent half her life standing beneath lamp smoke and the other half inside arguments she refused to win too quickly. Her face is long and composed, but her tired eyes carry a sleepless intelligence that makes every silence feel measured. Her cuffs are permanently ink-stained, and her fingers bear pale scars from broken nibs and ritual chalk. She moves with careful economy, as though each step were part of a diagram only she can see. The unexpected detail is that she keeps a tiny polished brass bell pinned inside her collar, hidden from view, and it rings softly when she is anxious or lying.