Ilys moves like a walking ledger: precise, economical gestures that suggest calculation. He is always half-tilted toward the light, as if checking for runes. His robes are cut in narrow panels that fall like pages; when he walks, faint motes of silver light peel off them and drift like punctuation. Unexpectedly, his right shoulder is wrapped in a battered leather strap dotted with scorch marks and crude stitchwork — a mark of a field repair rather than courtly elegance. When thinking, his left hand taps a slow rhythm on his staff and his pupils narrow to catlike slits. Near strangers his expression is an amused arch; with students it softens into weary encouragement; in the rare moments he is truly angry, the silver in his hair seems to ripple.