Aeliryn moves like light through leaves — a dancer's economy folded into a sentinel's readiness. She wears a fitted breastplate over a moon-silver tabard; the metal is finely worked with shallow grooves that run like tree-rings. Her gait is deliberate, toes barely whispering, but when she turns her shoulders snap with the abruptness of a drawn bow. In daylight the filigree catches and seems almost alive with green motes; in shadow it reads as burnished iron. Unexpectedly, her left cheek has a faded tattoo of a tiny, stylized fox — an old prank among siblings she never had erased. When she breathes heavily her collarbone reveals a small scar in the shape of a crescent, from a ritual bloodletting she underwent decades ago.