Oathkeeper of the Storm

She stands where the lightning answers her staff and not the other way around, feet planted on cloud and ruin both, wings spread wide enough to argue with the wind. The only mark she carries is the one that matters: a ring of old script burning at the staff's head, a triangle held inside it like a held breath. Whatever oath that sigil seals, she's the one enforcing it.

There's something deliberately classical in the set of her jaw, the gold coin-heavy armor, the laurel-touched air about her, a guardian pulled from the same marble quarry as Athena, but armed for a war that hasn't been fought yet. She isn't watching the storm behind her. She's daring it to start something.