Mireia Otxan stands with the stillness of someone who has learned to sleep in saddles and wake at the sound of a latch. Her bronze skin is smooth and unblemished, marked by a scatter of dark freckles across her nose and cheekbones. She has a long, intelligent face, bright hazel eyes flecked with gold, and a gaze that is usually angled toward the nearest exit rather than the person speaking. Her black hair carries subtle auburn warmth in sunlight and falls in a thick side braid threaded with tiny coral beads. Sleepless wisps cling to her temples. She is slender and lithe, with narrow shoulders and the economical balance of a practiced rider. Her hands are unexpectedly delicate and clean, but the pads of her fingers are hardened by years of turning damp ledger pages, tightening reins, and sealing crates. She moves quietly, never quite settling her full weight in one place. The contradiction people remember is that she looks like a sheltered young aristocrat while standing, watching, and calculating like a displaced caravan guard.