Thalanor moves as if the ballroom itself bends to his steps: measured, theatrical, and always three heartbeats ahead of the music. He wears a perpetual half-smile, and his gestures are flourished like a conductor’s. His skin shimmers faintly at certain angles — not with sweat but with the residue of glamour magic, like oil on water. His left eyebrow arches almost independently, a quirk from a long-healed lightning wound. He favors grand entrances, arriving with a trailing shower of golden motes that smell faintly of ozone and jasmine. Unexpectedly, the hems of his robes are singed in places and patched with rough sailor's cloth, a contradiction to his resplendent bearing that hints at a life outside palace comforts.