King Telestai Veyr stands with the stillness of a monument, yet moves with the sudden economy of a veteran duelist. His face is broad and weathered, marked by fine lines that deepen when he listens rather than speaks. A pale scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, giving his habitual smile a faintly crooked warmth. He wears a polished iron crown rather than gold, its inner rim engraved with the names of commoners who died defending the realm. His hands are callused, his nails permanently darkened by ink and sword oil. The unexpected contradiction is that he smells faintly of cedar smoke and sugared plums, a scent left by the kitchens where he still helps prepare winter preserves. In formal halls he appears immovable and regal. On campaign, he becomes nearly silent, low to the ground, and startlingly quick, like an old wolf crossing snow.