The stylist measured me with tapes, his hands hovering inches from my skin, respectful of the boundaries.
For the next hour, we selected my clothes.
I did not want fashion. I wanted lines that commanded respect and fabrics that absorbed light.
It took fifteen minutes to sort Malakor out. The priest was easy; he just wanted to look like he belonged to an Inquisition group.
Then, it was Kael's turn.
The stylist began pulling out generic suits. "For the young gentleman, perhaps something light? A pastel—"
"No," I interrupted.
I walked over to the racks.
"I will choose for him."
Kael, who had been standing by a mirror looking miserable, suddenly perked up. A flush of color hit his pale cheeks. He looked at me as if I had just promised him a galaxy.
I moved through the aisles.
"This," I said, pulling a heavy, high-collared tunic. "And this."
I spent thirty minutes curating his shell, Choosing military discipline mixed with aristocratic flair.
The stylist watched, his eyes widening. "The mix... the textures... I would not have thought to pair the sash with that cut, but... it works. It is aggressive."
"It is necessary," I corrected.
I gathered the pile.
"Come, Kael."
We entered the large VIP dressing room. Mirrors lined every wall, reflecting my exhausted face and Kael's eager one.
I placed the clothes on the velvet bench.
"Take off all of your clothes," I commanded.
Kael didn't hesitate.
He unbuckled his belt. He pulled off his shirt. His movements were efficient, rapid. He kicked off his boots.
Then, without pausing, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and shoved them down to his ankles.
I froze.
He stood there, completely naked, looking at me with an expression of calm expectation.
"Stop," I said, reaching out to grab his wrist.
I pulled his hand up.
"That is not necessary."
Kael blinked. He looked down at his nakedness, then back at me. "Master, you said 'all of your clothes'. Underwear is also a cloth."
I stared at him.
It was a syntax error. I was dealing with a mind that processed commands with the literal absolute of a computer, yet felt with the intensity of a child.
"My error," I said, feeling a migraine pulse behind my right eye. "I should have specified. Except underwear."
"Oh."
Kael pulled them back up. A delayed flush of embarrassment finally hit him, turning his ears red.
"Apologies, Master."
"Quiet," I said. "Turn around."
I handed him the shirt. "Left arm first. Then right."
I guided him through the ritual of dressing.
First, the trousers. Fitted black fabric that allowed for movement but held a sharp crease.
Then, the tunic. It was a high-collared black piece with an asymmetrical design. I buttoned it myself, starting from the throat and working down.
My fingers brushed against his sternum, and I felt his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"You must control this," I whispered, adjusting the silver chain accents that draped from his shoulder to his hip.
"The magic. The gravity. The anger."
I picked up the sash—a vivid blue silk that matched the void of his eyes—and secured it diagonally across his chest with an ornate jeweled brooch.
"Your emotions are leaking, Kael. A leaking weapon is dangerous to its user."
I spun him around to face the mirror and draped the long black cape over his shoulders, adjusting the bright blue lining so it flashed only when he moved.
"I do not mean you should lower your guard," I said, meeting his eyes in the reflection. "But you must be ice. Not fire. Fire burns the house down. Ice preserves it."
Kael looked at himself. Then he looked at me.
"I will be ice, Master," he vowed. "I will obey."
"Good boy."
We stepped out.
Malakor was waiting. He looked transformed.
Gone was the dirty robes. In his place stood a figure of dark authority. He wore a high-collared black tunic adorned with red cross-shaped buttons.
A heavy, floor-length deep red coat hung from his shoulders, accented by a silver chain and a silver dragon brooch.
He looked like a High Inquisitor. Or at least, a very convincing actor playing one.
But the silence in the room wasn't for Malakor. It was for us.
I walked to the mirror to inspect my own reflection.
A gothic-inspired black three-piece suit. The jacket lapels were stitched with gold embroidery—subtle, intricate fractals.
Beneath it, a fitted black vest with gold buttons. A gold pocket watch chain drew a parabola across my midsection.
I adjusted the shimmering gold tie against my black dress shirt.
I took the long, dark cape the stylist handed me and let it settle on my shoulders. I pulled on the black leather gloves. Finally, I took the black cane with the gold handle.
I didn't need the cane to walk. I needed it to point.
The stylist, Varen, was staring at Kael. He was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Sir... sir, this is..." He waved his hands at Kael.
This is a masterpiece. The contrast! The 'Cold Prince' aesthetic! Please, if you allow me to take just a few photographs for our catalogue... I can offer a twenty percent discount on the total bill."
He reached for a camera.
I slammed the tip of my cane onto the marble floor.
The sound was sharp, violent. It cracked the silence.
"No," I said.
I turned to the stylist. My voice was low, devoid of warmth.
"I do not like anyone taking pictures of my belongings."
The stylist flinched, pulling his hand back as if burned. "I... I understand. Forgive me."
"The bill," I demanded.
"Ten... ten thousand Clons."
We paid.
Our reserves dropped to 41,900.
I turned to the door. Malakor opened it, bowing low.
Kael fell into step behind me, his boots clicking rhythmically on the floor, his blue sash cutting through the darkness of his silhouette.
We stepped out into the street.