Valcorin Leise is all silk menace and cultivated scandal, a tall man who seems to enter rooms before his boots do. His pink jacket is cut sharply at the shoulders and lined in rose-gold stitching that catches light like a blade drawn halfway from a sheath. Tight leather leggings cling like polished ink, and every accessory on him is black, immaculate, and expensive enough to look like a threat. His skin has the pale, near-translucent quality of someone who sleeps little and thinks constantly. His movements are feline and exact, but every so often he pauses too long, as if listening to music no one else can hear. The contradiction is obvious and unforgettable: he dresses like a decadent court favorite, yet carries himself like a battlefield officer about to order a charge.