A poised human woman whose presence makes a room feel suddenly audited. Miren stands perfectly upright, moving with economical, almost soundless precision, as though every gesture has been entered into a ledger before she performs it. Her face is narrow and composed, with high cheekbones, a small scar crossing the left eyebrow, and sharp gray-green eyes that seem to read people by the way they hold their hands rather than by what they say. Silver threads run through her nearly black hair, which is swept into a severe knot pinned with a broken brass key. Her skin has the cool, faintly waxen pallor of someone who spends too many hours beneath administrative lamps. She is impeccably groomed, yet one cuff is always faintly stained with sealing wax. The contradiction is deliberate: beneath her immaculate magistrate's coat, she wears a battered red wool sock on her left foot, a private superstition left over from the night she survived a municipal archive fire.