Kivharo

Kivharo perches on broken roof tiles so he can watch every knot in a rope line before touching it. His earth-brown and ash-grey feathers are singed at the tips from too many “safe” test burns, and his wings are inked with crude diagrams for devices that never got approved. A blacksmith’s bellows smell clings to him; he calls it “fuel.” When a lock resists, he grins and starts dismantling it—by sound, not sight.