Vaelorith moves as if pulled by two tides at once: the slow, measured gravity of age and the sudden, lithe readiness of a predator. His face is a map of fine silver-lined scars that catch the light like fossilized lightning. Half of his once-gleaming white wings have atrophied into a drape of dusky feathers that hang like a cloak; the other half remains fully plumed and functional, tipped in ink-black. Where his left temple would be, a thin seam of pale stone runs into his skull (a centuries-old ritual graft). His fingers bear brass rings scored with tiny sigils; when he gestures they leave a faint trail of cold motes that dust the air for a heartbeat. He favors walking close to walls, as if listening to them.