Miren moves like someone who has spent years walking tight schedules and narrow budgets: deliberate, economical, and unfailingly upright. She favors plain cut garments that hang cleanly from her shoulders, but one fact always draws the eye first — a small silver brooch shaped like a crossed key and quill, pinned at her throat and polished to a mirror shine. Her face is lined but not worn; the lines are paths of decisions, not exhaustion. Her hands are work-worn, with pale calluses along the thumbs and forefingers from years of sealing documents and tying ledger cords. She keeps one unexpected vanity: a single streak of bright blue ribbon braided into her otherwise gray braid, a childish holdover from the day her eldest son left Harrowcross and never returned. When she talks to those she trusts, her stern mask softens and a faint warmth brightens her eyes; in public, she is all measured calm, the town's steady pair of eyes.