A fourteen-foot Jotun-Kin whose immense frame seems built from a volcano's cooled shell. Plates of black, glassy skin overlap like broken obsidian, with narrow seams glowing ember-orange when he moves. Heat ripples distort the air around his shoulders; the scent of hot stone and iron follows him. He walks with a measured, heel-first tread that makes cups tremble on tables, and every few breaths his thumb checks the clasp at his throat as if counting a pulse. Unexpectedly, he keeps a tiny woven reed bird pinned inside his breastplate, its pale fibers absurd against his furnace-bright armor.

Ignis is patient enough to hear a frightened recruit through a whole night, but intolerant of an officer who wastes lives to preserve appearances. He trusts procedure because it saved civilians at the Searing Gate, yet he knows that obedience can become its own danger. In council he is blunt and practical; among survivors he is unexpectedly attentive, remembering names and asking after the people who are absent.

Ignis was born among Jotun-Kin camps above the warm currents of the Sovereign Basin, where children learned to read the sea by the taste of its steam. He became a commander during the Searing Gate Stand, when a failing passage threatened to trap civilians behind a collapsing defense. His officers urged him to hold the citadel. Ignis ordered its evacuation instead, stood in the breach, and watched the defenders surrender ground to keep the passage open. That choice became the Hearth-Core Concordat's founding precedent, and the lesson he has never stopped enforcing: a position can be retaken; a people cannot.