Mared Sivek is a weathered human woman with the compact, practical strength of someone who has spent twenty years hauling gates, breaking up tavern fights, and carrying injured people through snow. She moves with a slight forward lean, as if always approaching trouble before it can reach anyone else. Her left cheek is puckered by an old burn scar, while the rest of her face is unexpectedly soft and almost grandmotherly. Her hands are broad, scarred, and meticulously clean. She smells faintly of lamp oil, boiled mint, and horse leather. Though she wears battered guard armor, she keeps a tiny blue ribbon tied around one wrist, bright and delicate against all that iron. People remember her not because she is imposing, but because she seems to notice the exact moment they stop telling the truth.