Darren Delacroix is a lean, ash-pale human with the polished look of a funeral director who has spent too long around sacred fire. His face is narrow and elegant, but it is marked by fine cracks of silver scar tissue around his throat and left temple, as if lightning once tried and failed to finish the job. He moves with unnerving care, placing each step like a man crossing glass, yet his hands are restless and precise, forever aligning invisible lines in the air. His most memorable contradiction is his wardrobe: impeccable midnight brocade, embroidered with mourning lilies, worn over a pair of mud-caked traveling boots that he refuses to replace. When he is angry, the seams of his cuffs shed tiny motes of gray light like cooling embers.