Mina Hareth is a slim young woman with the compact, well-muscled arms of someone who has hauled rope, crates, and wounded people long before she learned formal swordplay. Her warm olive skin carries a dusting of golden freckles over the bridge of her nose, shoulders, and knuckles. Her soft-cheeked, almost cherubic face gives a misleading impression of gentleness until her deep hazel eyes settle on an exit or a threat. Amber flecks flare in those eyes under warm light. Her jaw-length dark brown hair is cut unevenly, with one side tucked behind her ear and the other constantly falling into her mouth. She stands fully upright but leans subtly forward, as if the next room is always calling her. Her movements are quiet and economical, with her weight favoring the balls of her feet. The unexpected contradiction is her hands: broad-palmed, callused, and visibly stronger than her delicate face suggests, yet she handles small objects with a near fastidious tenderness. People tend to remember that she looks like a patient village saint and moves like someone already halfway through an escape.