Illyr is groomed to an extreme: polished obsidian nails, a face shaved smooth save for a single, immaculate eyebrow arch, and skin that gleams like moon-polished onyx. He moves with a catlike, measured grace — each step a rehearsed politeness — and his gestures are small, precise, as if carefully conserving resources. His clothes are noble and impeccable: tailored dark silk that fits as if made to hide straps and pockets, a half-cape of deep indigo that hangs like spilled ink. Unexpectedly, he wears practical leather gauntlets studded with tiny brass gears; the incongruity of artisan's tools against aristocratic finery makes him feel simultaneously fragile and dangerous. When still, he tilts his head slightly to the left, as though listening to a second voice only he can hear.