Mara Fen is broad-shouldered and steady as a doorpost, with the compact strength of someone who has spent decades carrying trays, bodies, and burdens. Her hands are square-palmed and scarred by heat and knife slips, always smelling faintly of yeast, rosemary, and ash. She moves with measured economy, never wasting a step, yet there is an unexpected softness in the way she folds napkins and straightens mourning ribbons. A long silver braid is usually wound into a knot at the back of her head, but one loose strand always escapes and catches the firelight like a pale thread of smoke. Her left sleeve is carefully mended with bright ceremonial thread, a contradiction against the rest of her practical, dark clothing, as if a widow had decided grief should also be beautiful.