Yuzsár looks as if the road itself has been sanding him down for years. His brass-colored scales are dulled by fine dust, with pale grit lodged between the ridges at his jaw and knuckles. He moves with a measured, heel-first tread, keeping his shield close and his head angled as though listening for a roof beam to complain. A small iron kettle hangs from his belt, blackened all over except for one bright, thumb-polished crescent on its handle. People tend to remember the kettle before they remember his armor.

Yuzsár is protective without being soft-spoken about danger, and distrustful of authority without taking pleasure in defiance. In a crisis he is direct, decisive, and surprisingly good at making frightened strangers cooperate. In safe company he is patient and almost domestic, fussing over a kettle or a loose buckle. When he feels personally challenged, he can mistake stubbornness for principle and will hold his ground long after a wiser person would change tactics.

Yuzsár grew up among the kiln yards of Sárk, where his family fired roof tiles and repaired the brick channels that carried hot air through the workshops. He enlisted as a caravan guard after a kiln collapse left his family in debt. During his first winter on the road, a bridge gave way beneath a refugee cart. His captain ordered the guards to save the cargo; Yuzsár disobeyed, braced the cart with his shield, and helped pull the passengers free. The captain dismissed him, but one rescued child, now a grown roadwright named Olek, has remained his friend and occasional source of work. Yuzsár later learned soldiering from a patient veteran, Branka, who taught him that a formation is a promise made with your neighbors. Now he escorts travelers and checks failing bridges for a modest fee. His present trouble is that a local magistrate wants him to certify an unsafe crossing before a market caravan arrives. He refuses to sign, but the delay will strand people who cannot afford another route.