Lyra is a compact human woman who moves like someone always balancing a tray, even when her hands are empty. Her skin is weathered by hearth heat and winter drafts, her forearms scarred by old burns and broken glass, and her dark hair is usually twisted into a practical knot with a single silver pin that looks far too elegant for her life. She has one oddly formal detail amid all her practicality: a crisp embroidered collar she irons every morning, as if she were hosting royalty in a room full of soot. Her apron is patched in a dozen fabrics, each repair neat enough to feel ceremonial, and she carries the steady, alert gaze of someone who has learned to read danger the way others read menus.