Aris moves like a utilitarian instrument—purposeful, economical, and quietly intimidating. She keeps her back straight even when relaxed; the left shoulder slightly lower from an old blade wound that tugged a tendon. Her face is weathered in layers: the thin white scar that runs from the corner of her mouth to her jawline like a permanent calculating smirk; crows’ feet deepened by wind and worry; a streak of ash-gray hair braided into the otherwise coal-dark plait that falls to mid-back. Her hands are big, callused, and always clean; she carries herself with the odd contradictory detail of a woman who polishes her boots as methodically as she studies body maps of fortifications. When she inspects operations she walks the line not to intimidate but to see—kneeling to check a gate hinge, tasting smoke to judge a conflagration. Unexpectedly, she collects tiny pressed flowers between the pages of an old command ledger and will touch them absentmindedly when thinking.