Myrzhan Khorzhek looks like a very old man assembled from winter light and careful habits. His face is narrow and deeply lined, yet his posture never sags because invisible currents lift his bones a finger's breadth above the world. Blue radiance glimmers beneath his skin, strongest at his temples, knuckles, and the hollows beneath his eyes. His white hair is braided into six thin cords bound with copper wire, each braid moving a heartbeat after he does. His hands are the first thing most people notice. The fingers are long, ink-stained, and ridged with tiny crystalline calluses from centuries of drawing sigils, while the nails are trimmed with almost vain precision. He moves with the serene balance of a dancer, but when startled he reaches for ordinary furniture before remembering he no longer needs it. He leaves behind the scent of rain on hot stone and the faint sound of glass singing.