Sir Maelon moves like someone who trained in court halls and mud alike: deliberate, unhurried steps that conceal quick reflexes. He favors a half-turned stance, as if always listening for a second voice. His travel cloak is patched at the hem with small, nearly invisible heraldic stitches—each stitch a mended debt or remembered comrade. An old scorch mark crosses his left cheek in a neat crescent; when light hits it from certain angles the scar seems almost like a faint white tattoo. Unexpectedly, he keeps one finger perpetually ink-stained from copying names and pledges into a small ledger he never allows anyone else to touch.