Joren is a narrow-shouldered young man with the wiry strength of someone who has hauled trunks, counted sacks, and slept beneath wagons rather than trained for battle. Rain slicks his face and gathers in the dark crescents beneath his eyes. His hands are ink-stained to the knuckles, but the fingertips are split and callused from rope work. He moves in abrupt, economical jerks, like a frightened bird trying to look predatory. His expression is feverishly focused, yet his mouth keeps forming silent counting words. The unexpected contradiction is his immaculate left cuff, carefully pressed and fastened with a tiny silver button, even while the rest of him is soaked, muddy, and spattered with blood.