Marek is tall and willow-slender, with a posture so disciplined it looks almost ceremonial until he moves, at which point his body unfolds like a drawn bow. His pale skin has a faint rose tint, and his dark brown hair is tied back with a strip of blue linen that once belonged to his sister. His hazel eyes are soft at rest but sharpen instantly when he notices danger, giving the unsettling impression that he is already finishing a sentence no one else has heard yet. His uniform is immaculate, but the cuffs are always faintly ink-stained, and one shoulder of his polished cloak is lined with a patch of repaired silk from a noble's gown. The contradiction is striking: he looks like a court poet in a guard's armor, and fights like a man who has spent years expecting tragedy.