Marek looks like someone carved from riverstone and then painted with travel soot. His skin is weathered and small scars map his jaw and forearms like a personal cartography. He walks with a careful, measured gait that gives the impression he is always keeping time in his head. His left forearm bears a faded silver tattoo of a tide-cracked compass, its lines chewed by salt. He keeps one sleeve rolled high and the other cuff buttoned neat, an odd asymmetry that suggests a private rule. Unexpectedly, his laugh is quick and boyish, cutting through his stern face and surprising those who judged him cold.