Lahcen moves like a man who measures distance in blades and bargains. He wears a dented, matte-black breastplate banded by three deliberate, lacquered stripes of deeper black that catch light like wet ink; the stripes run from his left shoulder, over his heart, and down his right hip. His gauntlets and greaves are mismatched—one polished to a mirror sheen, the other scratched and smoked—evidence of practical thrift and deliberate theater. A pleated black scarf is looped beneath his gorget and tucked into a belt of pouches; when he speaks it twists like a second throat. He often stands with his weight on one leg, shoulders slightly forward, as if forever ready to take a step or give an order. Unexpectedly, his left sleeve is embroidered with the faded crest of the old Knights of the Shield—stitched over with crude black thread. The embroidery contradicts the rest of his careful menace and betrays a complicated past.