By the time Enia arrived, Liam had managed to dress like a person who had not spent the morning in another man's bed threatening regicide over breakfast.
Mostly.
The clothes Arik's staff brought actually fit him this time.
Dark tailored trousers, a pale high-collared shirt with discreet conductive seams, and a long green-gray coat cut with the kind of modern precision Wrohan tailors would have killed for. The fabric was light, breathable, expensive, and threaded faintly with stabilizing ether filament along the cuffs.
It matched him.
Which was suspicious.
Arik, unfortunately, was also properly dressed.
Which, in Liam's increasingly compromised opinion, meant fucking handsome.
Black tailored trousers. A fitted dark shirt with a crisp, structured collar. A long imperial coat fastened with matte black clasps, with only faint gold ether lines worked into the cuffs and shoulders for decoration.
