Kael moves with a soldier's economy and a preacher's flourish. His posture is rigid at the spine but his shoulders slope as if permanently carrying an invisible yoke. He wears a high-collared parade coat tailored from black-washed brocade that seems to absorb light; its seams are embroidered with tiny, insectile symbols stitched in dull bronze. A ceremonial marshal's sash crosses his chest, stained at one point with an old, faintly iridescent blotch that no soap will lift. His left hand bears a thin lattice of pale scars like cracked varnish; when he gestures to emphasize a point, those scars almost look like an artist's signature. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's wooden toy soldier—badly carved, paint flaking—tucked in an inner pocket and sometimes brings it out to roll between thumb and finger in moments of thought.