Mira moves like someone always balancing a full tray, even when empty-handed, shoulders slightly forward and steps quiet despite her practical boots. Her face is sharp and lively, with laugh lines that appear before the laughter does, and her hands are stained faintly brown from tea, ink, and old hearth soot. She wears the strange contradiction of a carefully mended white apron over a travel-worn dark coat, as if she cannot decide whether she is a tavern worker, a pilgrim, or a thief. When she listens, she tilts her head like a cat hearing a bell, and when she is nervous she smooths invisible creases from her sleeves until the fabric nearly shines.