Merrin moves like smoke—easy to ignore until he isn't. He favors a half-smile and a practiced slouch that lets him measure a room without seeming to stare. His skin is weathered from nights under lantern light; his right hand bears a faint, silvery scar that curls from knuckle to wrist, the only obvious remnant of a past knife fight. He keeps a small brass coin-box chained inside his doublet at the hip. Unexpectedly, he wears a child's ribbon tied to the inside of his collar—a soft, faded blue that never shows unless he laughs or reaches for a coin. When he plays cards he unfurls small ribboned slips to mark deals; when he walks he leaves the scent of lemon oil and pipe smoke in his wake.