Shadein moves like someone who learned to take up less space in a crowd: measured, slightly curved shoulders, long limbs folded as if to hide them. He favors dark, finely embroidered court robes trimmed with the muted green of the Whisperwood crest; the fabric has a faint glint like beetle-wing chitin under certain lights. A thin silver lattice circlets his brow — not a crown, but a signet of office — and a smudge of soot at the base of his throat shows where he absentmindedly taps a pencil between his fingers. Unexpectedly, his left forearm is wrapped in patched leather and bits of scavenged chainmail: a nearly ceremonial guard that clashes with his otherwise elegant dress and suggests he's learned to tinker for himself. When irritated he hums a low, off-key tune and pinches the bridge of his nose, after which his speech becomes clipped and ironically polite.