Zalashri Emberflow

Zalashri Emberflow keeps her hair shaved close on the sides, then braids the thick top into three rope cords that smell faintly of smoked resin. Her animal eyes track exits first, then hands, then throats; she practices with a chalk bowl of fist-marks on the floor of every dojo she passes. A claw scar crosses her knuckles, earned when a corrupt tax-master grabbed her wrists and found they weren’t meant to bend. When she speaks, her “sermon” is always a rule she can enforce.