Damon Warrick is tall and rangy, with long blond hair that looks almost white in bright sun and hangs in a loose, wind-tossed curtain to the middle of his back. His five o’clock shadow is never quite clean, as if he has spent years in motion and considers stillness a minor insult. His skin is weathered fair, crossed by faint silver threadlike scars that shimmer when his magic rises, and his eyes are a striking storm-gray with flecks of pale gold that seem to drift like leaves in water. He wears layered travel clothes cut for speed rather than comfort, dark leather reinforced at the seams, and a short coat lined with green silk that catches the light like a fox’s fur. The unexpected contradiction is his right boot heel, which is heavily weighted with an iron shot hidden inside, because he says a proper fall should always begin with a choice.