Arin moves like someone who measures distance in heartbeats. He wears his long coat open so the subtle runes embroidered into the lining catch the light when he spins, creating a shimmering halo at the edges. His left sleeve is slightly singed down to the cuff from one lesson that went wrong years ago; beneath it a faded scar snakes from wrist to elbow. He favors light, close-soled boots that whisper across stone. His posture is erect, but his shoulders carry the faint tension of someone always ready to dodge. Unexpectedly, his right cheek is freckled with tiny pale burn-prints formed in near-perfect circles, as if someone repeatedly pressed a hot coin to him and forgot; they look almost ornamental and make his serene expression feel uneasy.