Marcus Thorne moves like a man who has measured every step he ever took. He wears distance in the slight stoop of one shoulder and carries weather in the crisscross of fine lines around his eyes. His service cloak is mended at the hem with mismatched threads, one patch bearing his watch sigil in faded ink. His hands are thick-fingered and stained from years of lantern oil and rope; when he speaks he often smooths the inner seam of his cuff as if checking for dust. Unexpectedly, tucked inside his breast pocket is a small, hand-stitched paper crane that tilts when he draws breath, a relic from a promise he cannot otherwise show.