If tyranny builds walls, Yelka’s job is to blow holes in them.
A rapier’s point and a razor’s smile—he exposes tyrants one duel at a time.
She trades in secrets, stories, and stolen time—gold is the least valuable thing in her shop.
She sails without flag or fear—only a promise to drown tyrants and free the tide.
A blade in one hand, a relic in the other—he deals in faith, not gold.
He sees the body as blueprint, canvas, and battlefield—every bone a brushstroke.