A broad, compact human with a wedge-shaped torso and a deliberate, heel-first gait, Teggan moves as if every floorboard might be hiding a loose nail. His close-cropped hair is combed into a severe side part, even after a long day at the forge; soot gathers in the part like dark pencil. His apron is stiff with old oil, and the brass buckles on it are polished with almost embarrassing care. He leaves the impression of a door barred from the inside: solid, practical, and more watchful than welcoming.

Teggan is protective without being tender about it, and exacting without believing himself infallible. With strangers he is guarded and businesslike; with children and exhausted travelers he becomes unexpectedly patient. When calm, he can laugh at his own stubbornness. Under pressure, he grows brisk and controlling, then later tries to repair the damage with a useful favor rather than an apology.

Teggan learned smithing from his mother, who repaired farm tools and wagon fittings in a roadside shed. At twenty, he joined a caravan as its wheelwright. During a spring flood, a bridge gave way beneath a loaded wagon. Teggan saved the driver but could not save the driver's young son, whose harness caught under the axle. He returned to town convinced that dependable work could prevent some kinds of grief, though he knows it cannot prevent all of them. Years later, he bought a failing shop and renamed it The Knight in the Morn, after a forgotten local knight who supposedly kept the old road passable. His apprentice, Niko, wants to make ornate weapons instead of practical repairs, and Teggan fears smothering the young craftsperson's ambition. His sister, Dema, runs a ferry across the nearby river and has lately been asking him to inspect a bridge he would rather not trust. Now a merchant caravan wants him to certify a batch of warped wheel rims before a dangerous journey, and the payment would keep his shop solvent for the winter.