Valric Duskvein is a gaunt figure, his pale skin stretched taut over sharp bones that give him a skeletal appearance. His stature is regal yet diminished, standing slightly stooped as if burdened by both time and sorrow. His long, ash-gray hair hangs thinly, wispy at the edges but clasped meticulously behind his head with a tarnished iron circlet—the only remnant of his former status. His eyes are the most arresting detail: flickering with shadowy violet energies that seem to dance just beneath his irises, giving an unsettling impression of flickering living darkness. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he is both conserving what little strength he has and calculating every gesture to preserve his dignity. Contradicting his fragile appearance are his hands—calloused and strong, the hands of a man who once wielded a king’s sword with deadly precision. The faintest trace of a smile flickers from time to time, oddly warm, belying the cold desolation of his imprisonment.