Aldren moves like a man who once paced a throne room rather than a taproom: deliberate, composed, and inevitably noticed. He keeps his back straight and shoulders squared as if an invisible crown rests there. His face is clean-shaven except for a narrow scar that slices through his left eyebrow and the bridge of his nose; the scar has pale silver hair sprouting from it in a line like frost. His hands are ink-stained at the fingertips, a legacy of late-night ledger entries and the marginalia of spellbooks. He favors layered garments that combine practical innkeeping with arcane flourish: a well-worn leather waistcoat under a deep-blue robe coat embroidered with geometric runes along the cuffs and hem. When he walks he presses the heel of his hand lightly to the small brass signet ring on his right hand — an idiosyncratic habit that suggests thought and authority. Unexpectedly, his left elbow is always bandaged, not from injury but because beneath the linen wrap is a tiny fitted pocket of glass vials, each sealed and labeled in an old script — wartime practice kept alive for reasons he never explains.