Torh is a compact mountain of a dwarf: shoulders like a hammered anvil and forearms corded with visible veins of iron-gray muscle. His beard is a dense, copper-stitched weave braided into seven plaits, each plait threaded with thin copper rings and tiny iron leaves—a Thornhollow motif—so that the beard occasionally tink-tinks when he moves. Soot traces the creases of his hands and the knuckles remain a stubborn, permanent black; a crescent of whitish scar tissue arcs along his right thumb from a blast of molten ore. He moves with surprising economy: deliberate, stop-start motions that suggest a mind always measuring force and angle. His apron is patched with scorched leather, but tucked beneath it is an immaculate hidden pocket that holds a folded scrap of velvet and an old, tarnished locket. Unexpectedly, Torh’s left eye has a pale, plant-green iris that seems almost to glow faintly in the dark workshop—an old alchemical stain from an experiment that succeeded in ways he refuses to explain.