Ruy is an authoritative, sharp-eyed elderly man whose presence seems to organize a room before he speaks. His thick iron-gray beard is combed into two blunt, practical points, and his stern face is lined deeply around the mouth from years of refusing to soften a decision. He moves with the measured, economical pace of someone accustomed to being watched. His dark wool tunic is finely made but visibly mended at one cuff, while his heavy coat smells of rain-damp wool, woodsmoke, and the sharp medicinal herbs he keeps in its pockets. He knows about the herbs, but not that the smoke clings to him. A heavy brass key hangs from his belt; its bow is polished by his thumb, while one tooth is worn nearly flat from decades of use. Unexpectedly for a stern magistrate, he carries a tiny carved wooden frog in his breast pocket, a toy he made for his late daughter.

Ruy is strict about procedure but compassionate toward people who have been cornered by circumstance. In a public hearing he is controlled, exact, and difficult to sway; in private he tells dry stories and quietly makes sure the least powerful person gets home safely. When calm, he invites disagreement. When afraid, he hides behind legal language and becomes stubborn. He can show unexpected tenderness to children, then turn abruptly formal if he notices anyone watching.

Ruy Abaroa was born to a family of tenant farmers and learned the village's laws by listening outside the council hall while bringing his mother her midday meal. He became a clerk, then a mediator, and finally headman when the old magistrate died during a winter flood. Years ago, a grain store caught fire during a dispute over rationing. Ruy had to choose between opening the store against the owner's orders or preserving the law that protected private holdings. He broke the lock and fed the village. The people remember the choice as courage; the owner remembers it as theft. Ruy's daughter, Ione, later died in a fever season after he sent her away to a safer household, a decision he still cannot forgive himself for. He keeps her frog carving close and has never told anyone it was hers. His current trouble is a succession of boundary disputes and missing grain that may be connected to the same landowner he defied. His wife, Tavia, urges him to let younger hands take over, while his former clerk, Beren, now speaks for the landowners and knows where Ruy's old decisions are buried.