Maren Thorne is a sharp-eyed human woman in her late forties whose stillness feels less like passivity than a locked door. Silver threads run through her dark hair, which is pulled into a severe braid so tight that not a strand escapes, though the braid's lowest six inches have become permanently roughened from rubbing against the brass clasp of her journal. Her fingers are stained with blue-black ink to the first knuckle, and the stains remain even after vigorous washing. She moves with a composed, unassuming posture, walking as if every corridor has already been measured and every doorway has a legal meaning. Her face is narrow and thoughtful, her spectacles wire-rimmed and perpetually sliding low on her nose, and her expression is usually mild enough to be mistaken for fatigue. The contradiction is startling: when she smiles, she reveals a row of brightly polished red glass dental caps on her upper teeth, a fashionable military gift from a former patron and the only flamboyant thing she willingly wears. People remember the quiet woman with the terrifyingly bright smile who made them realize they had already lost the argument.