Aedan carries himself like a man who has spent his life in rooms where a single careless word could topple a ministry. His fair skin has the soft translucence of old parchment kept in a dry archive, and his gray eyes seem almost silver when candlelight strikes them. Shoulder-length silver hair is tied back at the nape of his neck with a plain crimson ribbon, though a few fine strands always escape as if refusing to be governed. He is 6 feet tall and lean rather than frail, with the narrow strength of someone who has spent years standing at lecterns instead of battlefields. He wears immaculate white-and-gold robes edged with crimson trim, yet the hems are always suspiciously free of dust no matter where he has walked. The unexpected detail is that beneath that severe, ceremonial splendor he wears practical, scuffed travel boots and keeps one sleeve slightly rolled when he is working, as if holiness must make room for labor.