Corvin moves like someone who has practiced disappearing from rooms he never meant to leave — a careful glide rather than a stride. He wears a tailored dark slate coat whose inner lining holds pockets for tiny traps, papers, and poisons; the collar is often turned up to shadow his jaw. His face is narrow and pale from many nights lit by candlelight, with a faint crescent scar under his left ear where a courier's knife once nicked him. He keeps his right sleeve purposely shorter than the left to reveal a wrist tattoo of an old merchant guild mark, inked over with a thinner sigil of the crown — a contradictory display of loyalties. His movement is calm and economical, but his fingers are restless, always fiddling with buttons, coins, or the edge of his glove. In sunlight his features seem almost handsome; in torchlight they sharpen to something dangerous. Unexpectedly, he hums lullabies when thinking, a habit that both humanizes and unnerves observers.