The garden smelled like dusk, sweet with blooming lavender, edged with the soft bite of trimmed cypress. Lucas walked without direction, hands loosely tucked behind his back, letting the stone path carry him where it pleased. Windstone had offered to escort him, but Lucas declined. He needed the quiet. The air. Something ungoverned.
He was dressed in a Sahan traditional coat, a political gift, though no one had demanded he wear it. It was green, the shade of spring olive, embroidered in silver at the hems with curling symbols he couldn't read. It had been tailored for someone taller and broader, but the weight of it was a comfort. The sleeves brushed his wrists just right. The fabric moved like smoke.
It was meant for an omega. But longer. More formal. Less ornamental. A style reserved for consorts, perhaps. Or sacrificial lambs dressed too finely before a banquet.
He liked it anyway.
