It takes two more days before the snow melts enough for us to travel. On the morn of our departure, he climbs down the ladder, dressed in his official kaftan. It’s much grander than any he ever wore before he left the kastell, making me wonder if he has made it himself. The many nuances of blue shimmer in the bright light, reminding me of the changing color of his eyes. Intricate patterns are embroidered in silver thread around the neck of the garment and all over the tight, long sleeves. His hair is braided and wound around the crown of his head. He looks truly regal.
My stomach churns at the sight. No matter how magnificent he is like this, I prefer him in common clothes. I won’t dare to touch him when he’s dressed for official business and fear I will be struck down by a lightning bolt
