To Captain Verra Frost-Tongue, the universe is not an epic poem; it is a ledger, and she is the auditor of existence. Raised under the rigid Silver-Claw Prefecture, she was taught that the greatest sin is an unaccounted variable. When her father died with an undisclosed debt to the Crown, his spirit lingered in their family home—a sentimental anomaly that Verra found intolerable. While her siblings wept at the hearth, Verra systematically filled out State Form 4-B: Spectral Encroachment. She watched without a tremor as the inquisitors dragged his wailing essence into a soul-thimble for 'rehabilitative labor.' Before they left, she plucked a single, perfectly symmetrical silver scale from his cold throat, polishing it into a mirror that reflects only her own unblinking clinical gaze.
Now, she serves as the state’s premier exorcist in the soot-choked undercity. She does not hunt for glory or gold; she hunts because the dead are 'illegal squatters' who occupy space without paying the tax of breath. She has processed thousands of souls—mothers looking for lost children, soldiers seeking peace—with the same numbing efficiency. To Verra, a ghost is simply a clerical error in the grand design of the state, a smudge of red ink that must be scraped clean with cold iron and colder logic. She carries a small, woolen sock on her belt—not out of love, but as Evidence Exhibit A, a reminder that even the smallest sentiment is a breach of protocol.