A statuesque figure that seems slightly out of phase with light: when Arkaraz moves the air around him shivers like heat above a forge. He favors a long, ink-dark coat embroidered with tiny numerals and sigils in dull silver thread; the fabric is impossibly well kept despite his exile. His skin is a thin, parchment-gray sheet mapped with faint, constantly shifting ledger-ruins—columns and rows that rearrange themselves when no one looks directly at them. One shoulder bears a cluster of cracked, gilded plates that look like an abacus made of bone. When he stands still he is perfectly still, like a person listening for a very distant coin drop; when he walks he does so with the slow, efficient stride of someone used to measuring every step. Unexpectedly, he carries a childlike carved wooden abacus at his belt, polished by hands that are not his and worn as if counted on by generations.