Seryn walks as if listening for music only they can hear, taking light, economical steps that never quite seem hurried even when they are. Their skin looks like polished copper brushed with ash at the wrists and temples, and their narrow hands are forever stained with pollen, ink, and crushed mint. Long black hair, threaded with dried marigold and silver cord, falls in a loose braid down one shoulder, though a few wild strands always escape and cling to their damp forehead in the heat. Their most striking feature is a pale scar across the bridge of the nose, yet it is softened by a faint smattering of golden freckles that catch the sun like embers. They wear a contradiction of sorts: a traveler’s dust-worn cloak lined with expensive sunset silk, mended repeatedly with very plain thread. Even in the hottest weather, they carry a small wool scarf at the throat, as if they are either always cold or always remembering winter.