He stood there like a man carved from old iron and bone—motionless, weathered, and watching with eyes that didn’t blink nearly enough. There was nothing pretty about him. Nothing smooth or noble or clean. His face was a ruin of old breaks and scars: a crooked nose, split lip, cheekbone laced with pale lines where blades or claws had found him but never finished the job. His skin, dark and wind-scoured, looked like it belonged to someone half-again his age. His mouth sat in a permanent scowl, like every word left unsaid had curdled behind his teeth.