Theodore Senethril looks like a man carved from sun-warmed ivory and bad decisions. He is tall and narrow-shouldered, with a posture that suggests both hereditary pride and a lifetime of ducking low lintels in the poorer quarter of Shadowsands. His skin is weathered bronze with a faint sheen of grit that never seems to wash off completely. His hair is dark brown shot through with copper at the temples, always carefully tied back, though loose strands escape whenever he is angry. His eyes are an unusual storm gray, ringed with gold freckles, and they seem to catch light like polished coin edges. He dresses in immaculate mayoral coats cut from desert silk and brass-thread brocade, but the cuffs and hem are always stained with dust, ink, or the faint soot of lamp oil. The unexpected detail is that beneath all the formal splendor, he wears soft patched sandals instead of noble boots, a quiet reminder that he still walks the streets himself. When he moves, he does so with restrained, economical precision, as though every gesture has been rehearsed in a mirror and then revised in a market brawl.