A broad-shouldered human with close-cropped brown hair, a weathered olive complexion, and steady gray-brown eyes. His hands are thickened and rough from years of drilling recruits, repairing tack, and maintaining weapons. He stands with his weight slightly forward on the balls of his feet, as though every quiet moment might become an order to move. His chain mail is carefully mended, his greatsword is plain and serviceable, and a faded blue thread is tied around one wrist.

Quiet, observant, and patient with frightened people. Miklos has a dry sense of humor and a strong preference for useful work over impressive speeches. He is kinder than he first appears, especially toward servants, laborers, and inexperienced soldiers.

Miklos Haddad grew up where a river road crossed a dry borderland, the son of a ferryman and a potter who sold cups to passing troops. He learned early that soldiers were not the grand figures painted on recruiting banners. They were tired people with cracked boots, bad jokes, and a habit of sharing the last hot meal. When a levy officer offered him regular pay, Miklos joined, less from patriotism than from the practical promise of three meals a day and a roof that did not leak. Years of service made him a drill instructor, quartermaster's helper, and reluctant witness to officers spending lives to protect their reputations. Miklos left after refusing an order that would have sent a half-trained company into a flooded ravine. He was demoted, beaten, and discharged, but the soldiers he had trained carried the survivors out. Now he travels as a guard and troubleshooter, carrying the same plain discipline into every job. He believes courage is mostly preparation, and that no one should have to be brave simply because a superior was careless.