Veyhid moves with feline poise and a scholar’s hunched attention, his stately bearing undercut by old street scars across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His honey-brown skin seems almost burnished under lamplight, and the drape of his saffron-embroidered coat never quite matches the contained turbulence in his tarnished gold eyes. The faintest scent of rare spices and burning incense follows him. His left hand, while finely manicured, bears ornate tattooed script spiraling up the wrist—contradicting his otherwise regal attire.