Alys moves with the calm, economical gait of someone who measured every step in a crowded market. Her posture is erect but not rigid; shoulders relaxed like a diplomat at ease with trouble. She wears a cropped iron gorget over a simple leather doublet, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms traced with faint, pale scars from rope burns and small campaign wounds. Her right cheek bears a narrow, silvered scar that angles toward the jawline, like a quiet lightning bolt. When she laughs it is slow and almost surprised, the sound of someone who seldom allows themselves first-person emotions. Unexpectedly, she keeps an embroidered child's ribbon pinned under her gorget, faded to near-sobriety, a private softness peeking from beneath formal armor.