Elyra moves like someone who has learned to make small places feel large. She stands with a dancer's poise, heels barely whispering against stone, and when she walks a faint silver scarf trails a step behind as if tugged by an unseen wind. Her left forearm bears a faded tattoo of a ship's keel wrapped in ivy, the lines eaten by sun and salt; across her right cheek is a pale crescent scar that puckers the skin and makes her smile when she is embarrassed. Unexpectedly, Elyra's fingers are perpetually speckled with tiny flecks of blue chalk from map-inking, which clash oddly with the polished sheen of her brass finger rings.