Mara moves like someone who grew up under tree canopies and cobbled lanes — quick-footed, attentive to footing, and habitually turning her head to listen. She wears a patchwork linen apron over a simple moss-green dress; both garments have new, mismatched stitches from her own clumsy mending. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips from labeling crates, and a thin white scar arcs from her left eyebrow down through the temple where a falling branch nicked her years ago. When she laughs, a tiny, almost musical whistle slips through her teeth. Contradiction: she keeps a small, polished hunting mirror tucked at her throat on a leather thong and checks her reflection in private with a tenderness that seems at odds with her practical, work-worn demeanor.