Always immaculate even amid mud and blood: lacquered crimson cuirass trimmed in burnished gold, ribbons trailing from pauldrons that never snag, and a cloak whose pattern subtly shifts with the court season. He moves like a practiced courtesan and a battlefield commander at once—feet always measured, weight forward, hands ready. He favors a rakish smile and habitual tilt of chin; when he rides he sits almost casually high in the saddle, one knee loose, the other braced for a charge. Unexpectedly, his gauntleted left hand bears a smear of soot under the fingernail that never seems to wash away—an old habit from when he apprenticed with city blacksmiths to learn how armor sits on a man.