Osval’s lean, angular frame is swaddled in flowing saffron and slate sashes, the fabric shifting across his sinewy muscles with a second-skin smoothness. His ochre-yellow skin is marred—as if half-carved from pumice—by jagged silvery scars swirling over his scalp and down one cheek. His left eye glows a faint, unnatural turquoise, while his right is muddy brown. He moves in abrupt, controlled bursts, feet barely whispering against the floor, but his hands fidget restlessly with a locket dangling from his belt. Despite his disciplined bearing, his sandals jingle with tiny, mismatched bells—one bright, one rusted.