Tristan moves like a soldier trained to make every step efficient — precise, never wasteful. He keeps his shoulders squared and his chin high, but his head tilts at small, searching angles as if listening for whispers the rest of his body cannot hear. His moon-touched glaive hangs across his back when he walks; when sun glances off its haft it sheds a faint, pearlescent shimmer. His skin has the cool, porcelain pallor of someone who spends nights awake and days avoiding light. The left side of his jaw bears a ragged white scar that puckers the skin and occasionally twitches when the moon leans full. Unexpectedly, his uniform cuff is embroidered with silver musical notes — a relic of his minstrel mother's work — and when he moves through crowds he sometimes unconsciously taps the rhythm of an old border march against his palm. In stillness he looks like a noble in mourning; in motion, a hunting animal in uniform.