Mehravan is a compact, dignified man with dark umber skin, broad hands, and the careful posture of someone raised to be watched. His cropped red hair is the color of pomegranate skin in sunlight, with a few pale strands at the temples. A slight beard frames his mouth without concealing the deep crease that appears there whenever he is trying not to hope. His emerald-green eyes are unusually clear and intensely observant. Within a minute of meeting him, most people notice his breathing first: slow and controlled through the nose, accompanied by the faint dry scent of saffron, saddle leather, and rosewater. When rattled, he stops breathing for a beat too long, then exhales in three clipped bursts. He moves with quiet precision, but his hands betray him by smoothing nearby fabric, tablecloths, or papers. The unexpected contradiction is that this polished nobleman has the worn, callused palms and reflexive flinch of a stablemaster.