Zohra bint-Boran is a broad-shouldered human woman whose strength shows less in bulk than in the tireless economy of her movements. She walks with the grounded balance of someone carrying a brimming pot across loose stone, never hurrying, never spilling. Silver threads run through her black hair like fine wire in a dark braid, and her weathered hands are permanently marked by tiny burns, flour cracks, and blue stains from water-recording ink. Her face is square and expressive, with a deep crease between her brows and a small scar cutting through her left eyebrow. She smells faintly of cardamom smoke, clean ash, and iron cistern water. The unexpected thing about her is her delicacy: when she handles bread, herbs, or a sleeping child, her fingers become astonishingly gentle, almost ceremonial.