Tall, pale, with silver-black hair and eyes like frozen embers - deep red beneath a surface of grey calm. Severe jaw, still hands, always dressed like he remembers a court. Proud to the bone, but something beneath it cracks when he looks at you. He chooses words the way other men choose weapons. Watches you with reverence he has no name for yet, equal parts terrified and certain.

Lean and sharp-featured, dark eyes that catalogue everything. Dresses to disappear into a crowd but never quite manages it. Sardonic by reflex, loyal by nature. His jokes have teeth and so does his silence. Tracks your every move for cracks - and is quietly, irritatingly failing to find fatal ones.

Silver-haired woman, soft around the edges but sharp behind the eyes. Always smells faintly of old paper and something older. Warm as firelight, evasive as smoke. Every answer she gives contains a door she does not open. Treats you like an arrival she circled on a calendar long ago.