Miren stands with the careful poise of someone who measures consequences before speech. She favors a straight-backed, almost deliberate gait and moves with economy — hands rarely idle, fingers often folding a coin or smoothing a map. Her face is lined with the kind of small, regular creases carved by long hours outdoors and later evenings bent over ledgers. She wears a silver brooch shaped like a crossed key and quill at her throat, the official badge of Harrowcross's steward. An unexpected detail: beneath the sober brown cloak and tidy habit she favors one faded festival sash — a bright, patchworked strip tied around her waist, the only flash of color and the only token she keeps of a younger, wilder promise.