The full-length mirror in the dressing room reflected a figure that looked less like a noble attending a party and more like a commander preparing to seize a throne.
Zarius stood perfectly still as two low-ranking attendants nervously adjusted the silver epaulets on his shoulders. He wore a heavily structured, midnight-navy dress coat that broadened his already massive frame. The fabric was so dark it looked pitch-black in the shadows, but whenever he moved, the deep, rich navy caught the light, gleaming like the surface of a frozen northern lake at midnight. Black leather trim lined the high collar and cuffs, fastened by polished silver buttons that bore the crest of Zaltrane.
"Your Grace, the carriage has been prepared," a servant murmured from the doorway, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
