The morning of the final fitting arrived with a suffocating stillness. There were no rehearsals, no more dry runs. Today was about the costume. The final layer of the person I was supposed to become.
Eliot was waiting, but he wasn't alone. A small, sharp woman named Madame Elara stood beside him, her eyes like needles and her measuring tape coiled around her neck like a serpent. She looked me up and down, her gaze clinical and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Lord Valecrest," she said, her voice crisp. "We have a few adjustments to make. The final garment is ready."
"Garment," I repeated. "You make it sound like I'm being dressed for slaughter."
Eliot sighed, a quiet, long-suffering sound. "My lord is feeling poetic this morning."
Madame Elara didn't even blink. "Poetry has no place in tailoring. Precision does. Now, if you would remove your shirt."
