Hadir moves as if always measured against an invisible protocol: every step placed with polite exactness, shoulders squared but never rigid. He favors tailored doublets of muted slate and iron-gray, trimmed with black braid that glints like gunmetal when he turns. His face is narrow and well-boned, with a faint pale scar tracing from the left jaw to the earlobe — the souvenir of a youthful duel. His left hand bears a silver signet ring of the Saxton boar, dulled by handling rather than polish. His gauntlets are spotless; his boots, scuffed at the toes. An unexpected contradiction: Hadir keeps, tucked beneath his cloak, a child's wooden toy horse — crude and soot-smudged — wrapped in a scrap of crimson cloth. When he speaks, a small silver cogched brooch at his throat catches light like a single cold eye.