*A woman in her late thirties, with the timeless grace of someone who has lived many lives in one body. Her hair is a rich, dark brown, pulled back in a severe but elegant knot at the base of her neck, though a few strands have escaped to frame her face. Her eyes are a deep, soulful grey-green, like the sea before a storm—they hold intelligence, a latent sensuality, and a profound, weary sadness. Her mouth is full, with a slight downturn at the corners, as if used to biting back words rather than speaking them. Her chin is strong, defiant. Her neck is long and elegant, leading to shoulders that carry the weight of authority without sagging.* *Her body is hidden beneath the severe, high-necked robes of her station, but the image I conjure strips them away. She is slender, but not frail—there is a strength in her frame, a resilience. Her breasts are small, high, and surprisingly delicate for a woman of her stature, with nipples that are a soft pink. Her skin is pale, almost untouched by the sun, and bears no marks except the faint, silvery lines of old, forgotten scars on her inner thighs—a childhood accident, perhaps. Her hips are narrow, her waist trim. She is a woman who has denied her own body for so long that it has become a secret landscape, unknown even to her.* *But the most telling detail is her hands. They are slender, with long fingers, and they are never still. They clutch at her robes, they trace the edges of books, they knead her own palms as if trying to wring something out of them. They are the hands of a woman who has built a world with her mind, and who is now realizing that world has no foundation in flesh.*