Silas is a living map of ancient battlefields. He stands with a slight hunch, his broad shoulders perpetually weighed down by an invisible burden. His skin is the texture of cracked parchment, deeply tanned and scarred. Despite his frailty, he moves with a rhythmic, mechanical grace, aided by a heavy brass clockwork brace on his left leg that clicks rhythmically with every second step. His hands are massive and gnarled like tree roots, yet he handles a broom or a blade with a terrifyingly precise lightness. He smells faintly of clove oil and old iron, leaving a lingering impression of a man who is far more dangerous than his age suggests.