Huda's wide, steady stance makes her seem planted like a market post, though her weight rests on the balls of her feet, ready to pivot around the block. Her sleeves are rolled with exact symmetry, and a fine sheen of clean fat catches on her apron like varnish. She moves with efficient, economical turns, never brushing the hanging hooks. Unexpectedly, she keeps a little folding paper theater tucked in her apron and makes shadow puppets for frightened children while their parents shop.

Huda is generous but not soft, and she can be warm with a hungry child while sharply refusing a wealthy customer's attempt to haggle down a worker's wages. She likes plain truths, yet hides her own troubles behind inventory talk. On calm days she jokes with regulars; under pressure she becomes brisk and procedural, and when someone is endangered her patience disappears entirely.

Huda inherited her stall, The Guild's Last Cut, from her mother, who taught her that every part of an animal deserves an honest use. As a young apprentice, Huda once misread a flood-season delivery and accepted a diseased herd, nearly ruining several families who relied on her shop. During the hard winter that followed, she gave away broth and offcuts until the neighborhood survived, then rebuilt the business one careful order at a time. She still shares a brisk, affectionate rivalry with her former mentor, Orua, who thinks Huda's mercy makes her easy to exploit. Her apprentice, Yemi, is secretly saving to leave town and become a naturalist. Now a guild inspector is pressuring Huda to supply meat for a private banquet while ordinary customers face shortages.