Qarz is a tall, narrow man whose stillness feels deliberate rather than natural. His skin has the dry, fine-grained texture of old parchment stretched over bronze, and faint geometric lines rise beneath it whenever he invokes his oathbreaker magic. He moves with intimate precision, never wasting a gesture, turning his whole body toward whoever is speaking as though granting them the privilege of being observed. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice the smell of cold iron, rain trapped in stone, and sweet funeral resin. Qarz knows exactly how he smells and considers it a form of heraldry. The contradictory detail is his hands: despite his predatory presence, they are meticulously soft, carefully oiled, and almost tender when handling fragile objects. His shadow sometimes turns its head a moment after he does.