Kiya moves like a blade made of wind and memory: deliberate, economical, and always ready. Her skin is a warm, dusky rose that gleams faintly where the heat of exertion flushes it. Horns curve from her temples in a sweep like carved ebony horns—one nicked and burn-scarred at the tip. Her left forearm bears the black-ink brand of a soaring dragon, raised and slightly puckered; what the Drow meant for dishonor she wears like a banner. She has a long, pale scar that runs from just beneath her left eye down to her jaw; when she smiles it pulls her face into something softer than her bearing suggests. Her tail is ringed with simple leather bands—each knot a memory. She favors leather armor polished to a soft sheen and a cloak dyed to the smoky blue of First Light's dawn-flag. Unexpectedly, when she is off duty she tends a battered clay teapot she keeps on the guardhouse mantel, and she cradles it with more reverence than anyone expects from a hardened gladiatorial veteran.