Nythilva Zephyrath

Nythilva Zephyrath haunts the rooflines in red-silver armor etched with oath-runes she polishes with her own oil instead of temple rag. Her yellow, gaunt frame is all angles and tension; dark eyes track door hinges, not faces. After a raid went wrong and her squad bled out under a broken sky-mirror, she swore her blade would answer even when mercy did not. Neutral doesn’t mean soft—her vows come with receipts.