Myrra Reed stands with the compact confidence of someone who has spent decades moving between kitchen fires, barstools, and back doors. Her apron is stained with ale foam, onion broth, and one permanent crescent of lampblack near the hem, but it is always clean at the start of the evening. Her hands are broad and capable, the knuckles slightly swollen from years of hauling casks, and she moves with a quiet, rolling gait that makes her seem larger than she is until she stops beside you and looks straight through your excuse. Her most surprising feature is her smile, warm and grandmotherly, while one sleeve is stitched from fine blue velvet from a merchant's coat she once claimed as payment. She wears a narrow brass ring on a chain around her wrist, never on a finger, as if she no longer trusts promises that can be seen.