Arvyn moves like someone who measured every step as a child: precise, economical, never wasted. He wears his training in the way his shoulders sit—rigid but not tense—and when he walks a small scuff follows his left boot like a punctuation mark. His chain mail is well-maintained but bears a dozen shallow gouges from duty; the gauntlet emblem on his shield is burnished bright enough to catch a guard's eye across a square. An unexpected softness breaks the hard soldier image: he keeps a faded silk scarf from Teziir tucked beneath his breastplate and sometimes fidgets with its fringe when worried. Up close, his jaw is still unscarred, his hands callused, and a thin white line of scar tissue arcs across his right knuckle where he once misjudged a parry. He favors crisp, square stances in crowds as if he can straighten disorder by posture alone.