Kethra moves like someone who knows the weight of silence. They wear a patchwork of well-cared-for, mismatched garments — a moss-green travel coat lined with faded purple silk, a leather jerkin peppered with thumb-sized repairs, and a long scarf woven with tiny runic stitches. Their left forearm is wrapped in a strip of weathered parchment instead of a brace; the margins bear notes in a cramped, looping hand. When standing still they give the impression of someone listening to two conversations at once; when they walk they glide, bringing to mind a cat slipping between barrels. Contradiction punctuates their presence: their eyes are sharp and restless, but their smile is slow and disarmingly patient. Small motes of dust and chalk cling stubbornly to their boots, as if they spend equal time in dusty archives and rainy alleyways.