Beralden moves like a man who learned to keep going even when tired. He favors economy of motion: a short, efficient stride, shoulders squared, hands habitually near his belt. His face is lined with many small, silent scows rather than one permanent expression. The skin around his eyes is creased from squinting into wind and ledger light. He favors practical brown wool cloaks and a battered bronze-back signet of office that glints when he gestures. Unexpectedly, tucked at his inner wrist is a strip of faded green ribbon braided with a little silver bell he keeps from his wife's funeral. When he laughs — rare and sharp — the bell tinkles faintly against his skin.