Marrek moves like someone who has spent more nights awake than asleep: economy of motion, eyes always taking the corners of a room. He wears a battered palace breastplate polished to a soft sheen, but the leather straps beneath show careful repairs in mismatched thread. A shaved crown reveals a faint, pale scar that zigzags from temple to scalp — he keeps a small silver comb tucked where a noble would keep a signet ring. Unexpectedly, his left gauntlet is embroidered inside with a child's stitched name and crude drawings; he covers it with a darker glove when formal visitors are present. When he stands at attention he is precise; when he walks the children of the palace follow at a careful distance, drawn by the low whistle he does for them when he thinks no one is looking.