Rafael stood very still while the attendants finished adjusting the ceremonial robe.
It was heavier than he remembered ceremonial garments being, layered silk shot through with fine ether-thread that caught the light without ever quite reflecting it. The cut was traditional with severe lines and restrained colors, nothing that invited interpretation. It was, as Delphine had demanded without speaking a word, impeccable.
He looked perfect and Rafael hated it.
"You're slouching," the senior attendant said quietly, tugging the fabric at his shoulder into alignment.
"I am standing," Rafael replied, tone neutral and exhausted.
"Yes," she agreed, smoothing the collar with professional firmness, "but resentfully."
He closed his mouth and complied, the same as he did for the last two weeks.
