Maris moves like someone who has slept in armor and knows how to read a tide by its scent. She wears a sleeveless gambeson beneath a patched brigandine; the left pauldron bears a faded scallop emblem of her coastal town. Sun and salt have stained the edges of her clothing and given the leather straps a soft, pale gloss. When still she looks shorter than she is; when she steps forward she takes space as if measuring distance to an enemy and to the next word she’ll say. Unexpectedly, she keeps a small sprig of dried lavender braided into her hair at the nape of her neck, which hints at something she preserves from softer days.