The mirror before me wasn't just glass, it was an altar. An enchanted reflection that didn't merely show my image, but multiplied my power. Looking back at me was a man carved from shadows and ambition. Not just any leader. Tonight, I wasn't merely an Alpha. I was a conqueror about to claim his most precious trophy.
The suit that covered my body seemed made of liquid darkness. A deep black fabric, without shine, without ornaments... like the night that precedes a massacre. It fit with almost supernatural precision, highlighting every line of my torso, every tensed muscle as if it recognized who wore it. I needed no gold, no insignias, no flourishes. My presence alone was a declaration. Of power. Of danger. Of dominance.
The tailor, an old warlock with trembling fingers but expert eyes, gave one last tug to the lapel and stepped back with a solemn bow, as if he had just dressed a pagan god before a sacrifice.
