Valthus is a man of striking, almost surgical precision. His skin is the color of bleached vellum, stretched tight over a sharp, aristocratic bone structure. He moves with a slow, measured grace, as if calculating the energy cost of every step. His presence is a sensory contradiction: the sharp, clinical sting of formaldehyde immediately softened by a heavy, expensive cloud of dried lavender. Most unsettling are his hands, which are unusually long-fingered and always encased in spotless, white silk gloves that never seem to pick up a single speck of dust or drop of blood.