Brenna moves like someone constantly measuring the world, each step deliberate and exact, as if she is always adjusting to an invisible grid beneath her feet. She is lean and weather-strong, with ink stains embedded in the lines of her hands and a faint scent of wet parchment, cedar resin, and rain. Her coat is patched with mismatched cloth from a dozen expeditions, but the collar is lined with immaculate white lace, a strange little vanity she refuses to explain. At her belt hang brass rulers, wax sticks, string spools, and tiny bone weights that click softly when she walks. She looks like a scholar who has slept in ditches, old libraries, and boat holds, and she carries herself with the focused calm of someone who has survived by drawing the right line at the right time.