Prince Cainne moves like a man who has learned to be watched: measured, economical steps; a small smile that never reaches his eyes. He favors narrow silhouettes — a long, stiff-collared coat cut from dark-green cloth with silver piping that catches lamplight. His left hand bears a battered signet ring inset with a tiny shard of black glass from an ancestral seal, and he habitually tucks that hand into his coat when listening. His right forearm is marked by a faded burn scar, the edges puckered like old river rock. In sunlight his jaw reveals a web of thin scars as if he has been struck by many small, sharp things. Unexpectedly, he keeps a child's cloth puppet — a rag raven named 'Grin' — tucked inside his cloak, which he sometimes makes blink and whisper to ease tension in private. The overall impression: a careful predator with courtly polish and a private, childish softness hidden beneath a steely surface.