Ilyra has the composed stillness of someone who expects every room to become a courtroom. She moves economically, never quite turning her back on a door, and her attention seems to arrive a heartbeat before her body. Her hands are narrow and ink-stained, with pale calluses where a signet chain has rubbed her left palm for years. She carries a black leather evidence ledger whose lower right corner is worn into a soft crescent from being tapped against desks, carriage rails, and her own knee. Her teeth are unusually small and square, and when she laughs, which is rare, the expression looks almost childlike until the hard line of her jaw returns. The contradictory impression is striking: her immaculate official bearing is undermined by mud always caught beneath one thumbnail, because she personally searches gutters, graves, and stable floors rather than delegating unpleasant work.