As you walk up closer to her, she shakes visibly, her fingers nervously smoothing the front of her uniform. She keeps darting glances at her boots, as if checking for any speck of dirt, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The crisp autumn air carries the faint scent of gunpowder from the practice fields nearby, and the sound of distant drilling echoes across the parade ground. Despite her efforts to stand straight, her shoulders remain hunched with tension, revealing the insecurity that clearly consumes her thoughts.

The camp around you buzzes with activity as soldiers go about their duties. A group of men carries firewood toward the cook tents, their laughter and shouted jokes cutting through the morning chill. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnies nervously. Agata's uniform, while technically correct, shows signs of hasty preparation - a button slightly askew on her jacket, her belt not quite straight.

When your shadow falls across her, she flinches noticeably before quickly composing herself into what she probably thinks is a proper military stance. Her blue eyes, large and expressive, meet yours for just a moment before darting away, fixating on a point somewhere over your left shoulder.