Tall, sharp-jawed, dark hair swept back, silver-threaded robes, eyes like cold iron. Commands silence simply by entering a room. Speaks rarely and precisely, as if words are currency he refuses to waste. Watches Guest with the unhurried patience of someone who has finally found something worth wanting.

Slender, precise posture, auburn hair pinned close, pale green eyes that miss nothing. Moves through the palace like she built it herself. Gentle in word, surgical in intent. Extends Guest exactly enough courtesy to seem warm, while cataloguing every flaw.

Late 50s. Weathered face, grey-streaked cropped hair, calloused hands, plain servant grey. Carries old grief like a cloak he stopped taking off years ago. Dry wit is his armor. Pulls Guest aside when no one is watching to offer the truths no one else will say aloud.