Ibolya is a tall, weather-shaped woman whose presence feels more like a road marker than a soldier. Wind has roughened the skin of her hands and neck into fine, pale ridges, while years of rain have darkened the hems of her clothing and left a permanent reddish tint across the bridge of her nose. Her jaw is broad and strong, and when she laughs, which is rarer than people expect, she shows one slightly pointed canine and a row of small, square teeth worn smooth from chewing fennel seeds. She moves with economical forward momentum, never quite standing still, as if every conversation is happening between two destinations. The contradiction is that her battlefield posture is rigid and commanding, but at rest she folds herself into chairs like an exhausted schoolteacher, ankles tucked beneath her and hands hidden in her sleeves.