The outfit Aurelian prepared for Julian, though not a dress, was a masterpiece of cruelty.
It was a doublet and high-collared coat of midnight-blue velvet, so dark it was almost black, embroidered with thousands of tiny silver threads.
The pattern wasn't random; it was a perfect, shimmering map of the Northern constellations—the very stars Julian used to look at when he was at the North.
It was a beautiful, suffocating reminder that everything Julian loved was now a costume in Aurelian's theater.
As the maids cinched the silver-buckled belt around his waist, the air in the room shifted.
Aurelian had stepped into the room.
He didn't say a word at first. He simply leaned against the bedpost, his golden eyes scanning Julian from the silver-stitched boots to the pale, sharp line of his throat.
He looked at the hollows beneath Julian's eyes—the dark, bruised shadows of a week spent in hell—and a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face.
