Neris is a slim young woman with the compact strength of someone who has hauled rope, climbed roofs, and fought in cramped rooms. Her warm olive skin carries a dusting of gold freckles across her nose, shoulders, and knuckles. Her face is soft-cheeked and almost cherubic until she fixes someone with her patient, fierce gaze. Amber flecks catch in her deep-hazel eyes, but the most noticeable thing about them is where they go: never toward the loudest person in a room, always toward doors, windows, hands, and the nearest source of blue light. Her jaw-length dark brown hair is cut unevenly, as though she trims it with a knife whenever it becomes inconvenient. She moves with her weight slightly forward, upright but ready to pivot, making even stillness look like the instant before a decision. She smells faintly of beeswax, rain-damp wool, and bitter orange peel, a scent she insists is merely the chain oil. The contradiction in her appearance is disarming: her sturdy, well-muscled arms and watchful posture suggest a hardened guard, while her round cheeks and careful habit of smoothing wrinkles from other people's clothing make her seem almost tender.