William moves like a man accustomed to stage and battlefield alike: sure-footed, measured steps that keep the eye following him. His dark green jacket is cut with military precision; silver buttons march down its front in near-military symmetry, each button dull-polished from decades of ceremonial wear. A single epaulet of etched silver and jade rests on his left shoulder; from it hangs an embroidered thread in the pattern of the Shin family crest. A heavy red cape, lined with black silk and faintly starched, sweeps behind him, sometimes snagging on stairs if he does not mind it — an unexpectedly clumsy contradiction to his otherwise precise bearing. Golden filigree snakes along the sleeves: a family pattern repeated and varied into unique sigils only Shin family scholars can fully read. Around his waist sits a broad custom belt with a polished silver centerpiece shaped like a chess rook engraved with tiny battle scenes. When he smiles — a rare, slow curve — the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he tends to tug absentmindedly at the corner of his cape. Up close, his skin shows a faint network of pale scars across his left forearm, memories of a rebellion squelched in his youth. He smells faintly of cedar and parchment, and his hands are always clean but stained at the fingernails with ink from maps and chess notation.