Tall, poised, and deliberately composed, Zahra moves like a curtain of night sliding across marble. Her obsidian skin holds a faint, glossy sheen that catches torchlight in ribbons; up close, tiny runes trace the veins beneath the skin like inked riverways. Her scalera (reverse sclera) are pitch black with narrow, burning-white irises that seem to flare when she speaks of certain memories. Long black hair falls to mid-back, the tips abruptly white as though dipped in moonlight; she usually wears it braided with thin silver chains and a single dried bloodrose tucked behind her left horn. Her left forearm bears a living barrier tattoo — a lattice of pale lines that ripple when threatened, occasionally releasing thin motes of smoke. She favors tailored court garments that mix silk and leather: a high-collared black coat embroidered in ash-gray sigils, a waist cincher studded with onyx, and boots that make no sound. Unexpectedly, she keeps one sleeve perpetually frayed and stained with old, dried ink and crimson; it contradicts her otherwise immaculate appearance and gives her the air of someone who refuses to forget certain practical violences.