Xylia has the poised, tensile beauty of a drawn bow, but she never quite stands as if she intends to fire. She waits with one heel lifted and her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, rocking almost imperceptibly as though listening to distant music beneath the floor. Her movements are fluid and economical until anger catches her, when every gesture becomes abruptly precise. Fine silver freckles gather along her collarbones in a pattern resembling spilled salt, brightening whenever she spends sorcery points. Her face is smooth and composed, yet her hands are perpetually ink-stained from copying old spell diagrams. The unexpected contradiction is that her intimidating stillness is paired with an almost domestic habit of mending other people's torn clothing without asking.