Bram moves like a tree rooted in wind. He has broad shoulders that slump slightly from years of carrying sacks and leaning over ledgers. His hands are thick and callused, with small scars and a faded burn along the left thumb where a candle once singed him while counting seed rations late into a winter night. He keeps his beard clipped close but lets a single long strand hang braided and tied with a scrap of faded blue cloth, a keepsake from his apprentice. His boots are always crusted with mud and sawdust. Unexpectedly, he wears a small silver locket that gleams like a polished seed at his throat, a delicate thing against his rough wool tunic.