Qazim looks like a scholar who has been repeatedly mistaken for a thief and has stopped correcting people. His movements are quick, economical, and slightly sideways, as if he is always avoiding an invisible puddle. He smells faintly of cedar smoke, lamp oil, and crushed mint. His hands are narrow and heavily ink-stained, with calluses along the thumb from turning pages too quickly. He smiles with genuine warmth while discussing dangerous magic, yet becomes visibly embarrassed when anyone praises his courage. The unexpected contradiction is that his clothing and posture suggest frailty, but he carries himself with the stubborn balance of someone accustomed to standing in collapsing buildings.