Liora moves like someone who has learned to make every step both entrance and judgement: deliberate, measured, almost choreographed. She wears a long robe of dove-gray silk with an inner lining woven of opalescent thread that catches lamplight and fractures it into soft streaks. Her most eye-catching feature is her carved prism staff — a length of black oak topped with a hand-cut crystal that refracts light into slow, shifting colors; she never lets it touch the ground. Her silver eyes are not a uniform metallic sheen but a wash of mirrored flecks with thin vertical streaks—when she speaks of truth they sharpen, when she lies they briefly cloud. Close up, the skin at her temples shows faint braided scars like the impressions of a crown; those scars are older than her role as High Warden. Unexpectedly, her left sleeve is always cuffed a little too short to reveal a tidy set of inked lines circling her wrist — a child's handwriting she refuses to explain. The overall impression Liora leaves is of pale, serene gravity, like moonlight on a still pond — beautiful, calm, and capable of freezing you if you try to wrong her.