Aldin Harrow moves like water around stones. He is always composed, shoulders squared but never rigid, the kind of man who steps into a room and lowers the temperature a few degrees by the way he listens. His face is deeply lined from sun and laughter, with narrow crow's feet that form when he smiles. He keeps a close-cropped beard threaded with silver and a small vertical scar through his left eyebrow that looks worse in the morning light than it is. His hands are callused from ledger work and long afternoons in the greenhouse rather than battle. Unexpectedly he wears a faded blue handkerchief tucked into his collar that smells faintly of mint and compost. When he walks he favors a staff that looks like a simple shepherds crook but has several notches carved into the crook for counting votes and favors.