Eve
The royal military uniform felt foreign against my skin, crisp matte navy blue fabric with silver threading that caught the harsh studio lights, gems, I hadn't earned pinned to my chest. My hair had been pulled back into a severe high ponytail that tugged at my scalp, every strand smoothed into submission.
"Tilt your chin up slightly," the makeup artist murmured, dabbing concealer under my eyes deftly "The lights are washing you out."
I stood perfectly still as she worked, powder dusting my cheeks, lipstick on my lips. Around me, the studio buzzed with controlled chaos—technicians adjusting camera angles, sound engineers testing levels, producers barking instructions into their headsets.
The flags behind me had been positioned just so, Obsidian's silver wolf prominent in the center, flanked by the pack's ceremonial banners. Every detail calculated to project strength, legitimacy, control.