Sariya is a composed human woman in her late forties whose stillness feels more deliberate than restful. Her dark eyes remain sharply alert behind delicate gold-rimmed monocle lenses, constantly measuring exits, alliances, and who is pretending not to listen. Her fingers are permanently stained at the creases with blue-black ledger ink, yet her nails are kept immaculate. She moves with the smooth economy of someone accustomed to narrow balconies, wet stone, and crowds carrying dangerous loads, never hurrying unless she wants everyone to notice. Her pristine white-and-bronze silk veil covers the lower half of her face in public, softening her features into an unreadable mask. Unexpectedly, beneath the veil her smile is broad, warm, and almost grandmotherly, a disarming contrast to the icy precision of her negotiations. She smells faintly of rainwater, sealing wax, and hot metal from the aqueduct machinery.