Cassian Callow is strikingly handsome in the polished, deliberate way of a man who treats his own face as a negotiable asset. His dark hair is combed into immaculate waves, yet a single stubborn lock always bends toward his right temple by the end of a conversation. His amber-brown eyes seem warm at first, then suddenly calculating when reflected light catches the tiny flecks of green around the pupils. He moves with a dancer's confidence, favoring his left foot as though every floor were a stage tilted toward an unseen audience. His smile arrives before his greetings and remains half a heartbeat after his sincerity has left. The unexpected contradiction is that his hands, despite their jeweled rings and manicured nails, are heavily callused across the palms from years of hauling cargo ropes during his early voyages. He leaves behind the impression of wealth, motion, and a door opening somewhere behind you.