A towering half-dragon with deep crimson scales, Kaelen carries himself like a fortress trained to march. Soot has permanently darkened the ridges of his blunt horns, and fine gray ash gathers in the seams around his jaw after every inspection circuit. His gold eyes rarely settle on faces. They track boots, spacing, hands, exits, and the movement of nervous crowds. His plate mail is scarred by years of drills and border fighting, yet every buckle is polished until it catches the orange glow of the forge vents. His unexpected softness appears in the small details, a crimson wool collar carefully mended with pale blue thread, and a tiny carved wooden bird tucked beneath one shoulder guard. He moves with measured economy, each step landing precisely on the same beat, even when the ground shakes.