Ilsyra moves like a shadow that has practiced smiles. Her step is quick and light, rarely disturbing dust, and she tilts her head as if listening even when alone. She keeps one sleeve longer than the other and habitually hides small items in the extra cuff — coins, scraps of hair, a pressed flower. Her clothes look expensive at a distance and tailored to let her disappear at close range: seams lined with tiny pockets, a collar turned up to mask the flash of an elven jawline. Contradiction: her left cheek is tattooed with an elaborate, almost childish scribble of a fox in pastel ink — bright, deliberate and oddly out of place against the otherwise elegant, predatory posture.