Branwen Alder is a broad-shouldered human woman with the compact, durable build of someone who has hauled kegs, broken up brawls, and carried wounded travelers through snow. She moves with deliberate economy, never wasting a step, yet her hands are astonishingly gentle when setting down a cup or mending a torn sleeve. Her face is weathered like old applewood, with a crooked nose, a pale scar crossing her left eyebrow, and laugh lines that deepen even when she is angry. Her unexpected softness is most striking in her hands, which are callused and scarred but always smell faintly of lavender and warm bread. She leaves people with the impression of a hearth that has learned how to bare its coals.