Chapter 69: A Touch of White

The capital had never been particularly generous with pleasant mornings. Most days, waking up was already an inconvenience in itself. Unfortunately, today the sun had arrived with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been personally hired to ruin Lioren’s morning.

A sharp, three-note knock announced the arrival of Maison Vaneau’s head tailor, Arcel, a gentleman whose hair looked like he’d lost a fight with his pillow and somehow decided to keep the results. Behind him came two junior assistants pushing enormous clothing racks loaded with enough garment bags, velvet rolls, and gold-threaded decorations to outfit a small army.

"My apologies for the impossible hour, Your Grace," Arcel panted, dropping his leather tape-case onto the mahogany table with a hollow clatter while his two junior assistants began unzipping the dust covers with frantic speed. "When your courier arrived last night talking about an emergency fitting for the Duke Arvandel birthday banquet tonight, I thought... well, I thought someone had been assassinated or at least disinherited. But an entire formal outfit in twelve hours? For the Grand Duke? My word, I’ve had less stressful days preparing for royal weddings!"

Lioren casually waved him off, still holding his cup. "Spare me the hysterics, Arcel. Do you actually have anything wearable, or are we going to spend the morning looking at sad scraps of leftover linen from last season’s bargain bin?"

"Scraps?" Arcel stared at Lioren as though he’d just heard the most outrageous accusation of his career. "From Maison Vaneau? Never, Your Grace. Fortunately, a grand shipment from the eastern looms arrived just last night. We have an abundance of ready-made pieces. Perfect cuts, exquisite weights. With a bit of nimble finger-work from my boys here, every seam can be tapered, tucked, and fitted before the sun hits the western walls."

That was a relief, at least. Lioren didn’t want to spend the evening standing around looking like he’d been shoved into a sack of potatoes, especially since tonight’s gathering at House Arvandel was shaping up to be a royal-grade political swamp.

More importantly, Xavion needed to look good. No, scratch that. He needed to look spectacular.

Arcel began flipping through the hangers, pulling out one garment after another while enthusiastically describing each one. "Now, for the Grand Duke, something commanding? A blue tailcoat with fine silver stitching along the cuffs? Or perhaps a deep, charcoal-gray brocade that screams old money and quiet terror?"

"Black. Just bring the black. We both know I’m not wearing anything else, so let’s save everyone thirty minutes of polite hesitation."

Arcel bowed his head. "As expected. A gentleman who knows what suits him."

Evelia strolled into the parlor just then, enjoying a lemon tart she’d clearly helped herself to from the kitchens. She paused beside the clothing rack, gave the garments a quick inspection, then turned toward Xavion, who was standing quietly near the fireplace.

"And you, Prince Xavion?" Evelia asked around a bite of pastry. "Are we planning to arrive looking like twin undertakers, or are you going to inject a bit of actual color into this gloomy household? Because if Lioren insists on black, I refuse to be the only thing keeping the room from turning into a graveyard."

Xavion stepped forward and glanced through the available fabrics. He didn’t spend much time thinking about it. He had never been particularly fussy about clothes, and as long as something was comfortable and appropriate for the occasion, he saw little reason to overthink it.

"White," Xavion said. "The ivory wool tunic with the silver thread along the high collar, if it’s currently in stock."

Lioren straightened so quickly that his chair gave an unfortunate scrape against the floor.

"Yes!" Lioren blurted out, startling Arcel so badly the tailor dropped a mouthful of straight pins. "Brilliant choice! Absolute perfection! White is... it’s wonderful. It’s clean, it’s radiant, it’s practically screaming innocence and good intentions!"

Evelia paused, her pastry halfway to her mouth as she stared at her brother like he’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. "You’re acting as though he’s just announced the discovery of a new continent."

"I appreciate fine tailoring, Sister," Lioren shot back, though inside, he was practically dancing with relief.

Because beneath Lioren’s loud, excessive praise lay a very specific, mildly neurotic panic. He knew how this story went. He knew Xavion’s original fate, the part where the once-bruised Ostharian prince eventually gave in to the darkness within him, abandoned everything that once made him who he was, and chose a path that would turn him into the story’s greatest threat.

Lioren had absolutely no intention of letting his betrothed become any more familiar with darkness than necessary. He wanted Xavion surrounded by things that reminded him of warmth, kindness, and everything good in the world. White was a start. White was pure, bright, and practically synonymous with goodness. If Lioren could somehow convince the universe that his betrothed belonged on the side of sunshine and happy endings, he was more than willing to participate in the effort.

Arcel, sensing an enthusiastic customer, immediately seized the narrative. "A magnificent pairing! If I may suggest, Your Grace, we could give your outfits a few matching details without making you look like twin pages at a wedding, we can weave subtle thematic bridges. A black formal coat for Your Grace, yes, but accented with narrow ivory piping along the lapels and silver-thread embroidery on the cuffs. And for His Highness, the white high-collared tunic lined with delicate black velvet trim along the hem and shoulders. Distinct, yet inextricably linked."

"Approved," Lioren said instantly, waving a hand. "Whatever you need to do with the needles. Just make sure the seams don’t split when we breathe."

Evelia swallowed her tart, dusting off her fingers with a grin. "And make sure the trousers aren’t too tight, Arcel. We have enough ladies in the capital who faint at the slightest excitement. There’s no need to send them into a fit before the first dance."

"My work is entirely respectable, Lady Evelia!" Arcel squawked, already signaling his assistants to haul the selected garments over to the fitting screen.

Ten minutes later, the measuring tape was flying, pins were disappearing into Arcel’s mouth at an alarming rate, and Evelia had settled on a sweeping, unapologetically dramatic crimson silk gown that looked like it had been dyed in her enemies’ blood.

By the time they were ready to depart, the Roscaire foyer smelled strongly of beeswax, expensive lavender pomade, and the sharp, clean starch of freshly pressed fabric

The transformation was nothing short of miraculous.

Lioren stood near the entrance, tugging nervously at the stiff cuffs of his black coat. It was tailored to fit his shoulders perfectly, narrowing neatly at the waist, while delicate ivory piping along the collar provided just enough contrast to keep the otherwise severe design from looking too plain.

A short distance away, Xavion stood before the mirror, making a final adjustment to the silver clasp at his waist.

The white tunic suited him remarkably well, fitting across his broad chest before falling neatly to thigh. Narrow black velvet trim along the collar and cuffs provided a striking contrast against the pale fabric, bringing out his features in a way Lioren hadn’t quite expected. Xavion still carried his usual reserved expression, but dressed in white, he looked every bit the royal he was, with none of the weariness of a man who had spent so many years on the battlefield.

Lioren found himself staring for a beat too long, his fingers freezing on his lapel, before he hurriedly looked down to check his boots.

The sound of heels against the staircase announced Evelia’s arrival before she even came into view.

Evelia descended in her sweeping crimson silk gown, looking every bit as dramatic as she had intended. The fitted bodice accentuated her figure, while delicate garnet embellishments adorned the neckline. Her long train followed behind her, which she managed with surprising ease despite its length. Her dark hair was pinned up with two long silver ornaments, both of which looked sharp enough to cause trouble if anyone got on her bad side.

She reached the bottom landing, stopped dead, and folded her arms, her eyes darting back and forth between the two men. She took in Lioren’s dark, commanding presence, then Xavion’s brilliant, stark white, and finally the subtle, intentional way the silver and black details bridged their outfits together.

"I’ve said this before," Evelia remarked, a little smile touching the corners of her mouth, "but I am going to say it again because the way you complement each other is almost unfair. You two look like a couple."

Lioren didn’t respond immediately. He turned to look at Xavion, their eyes meeting across the entry hall. Suddenly, Evelia’s teasing didn’t seem quite so easy to brush aside.

"We are," Lioren said.

He held Xavion’s gaze for a second, then two, before a tiny, self-aware twitch of humor tugged at his lips. He tilted his head slightly. "Aren’t we?"

Xavion made no effort to conceal his smile. He simply met Lioren’s gaze, his usual reserved expression giving way to something softer and far more genuine. It was such a rare sight that Lioren found himself momentarily forgetting what he had meant to say.

Xavion reached out, lifting his white leather gloves from the side table, and extended his arm toward the heavy front doors where the carriage was waiting in the mist.

"Shall we go?" Xavion asked gently.

Lioren let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, adjusted his collar one last time, and stepped forward to take his place right beside him.

With Evelia trailing behind them like a splash of blood on fresh snow, the three of them left the estate behind and set off into the capital night without a backward glance.