Cyril Stroud is a polished, narrow-faced human whose immaculate posture suggests that every room is an office and every conversation a transaction. His skin has the weathered bronze tone of someone who spends more time outdoors than he admits. His movements are economical and quiet, with the careful balance of a man accustomed to walking wet embankments at night. His silver-brown hair is parted with military precision, yet mud clings permanently to the seams of his boots no matter how often they are scrubbed. He smells faintly of cedar oil, wet earth, and old paper. His hands are soft from years of clerical work, but his knuckles are scarred and his fingernails are always dark with soil. The contradiction is unsettling: he dresses like a court official but carries himself like a grave digger who knows exactly where every body lies.