Lady Ardyn Soryn is tall and spare, with the weathered dignity of a banner left too long in sea wind. Her slate-gray coat is always immaculate, yet the cuffs are soft with wear from years of gripping doors, ledgers, and spear shafts. She moves with the quiet certainty of someone who has memorized every stone in a fortress, never wasting a step, never hurrying unless someone else is in danger. Her left glove is stitched with silver thread over two missing fingertips, and the oddest thing about her is a narrow smile that appears only when she is most worried, making concern look almost like amusement.