After the conversation and mild shock to his heart, Ryn was escorted to a smaller room.
A door swung open before he even reached it.
Inside was unmistakably a dressing room—wide mirrors, glowing lanterns, tables stacked with folded fabrics, and a line of servants standing in perfect formation like a well-oiled machine waiting for activation.
He didn't even get the chance to raise a hand in protest.
The moment he stepped through the threshold, they descended.
One servant immediately tugged off his travel-worn coat. Another swept in with a comb, dragging it through his hair with alarming efficiency. A third appeared from nowhere with measuring tape, circling him with the precision of a predator sizing up its prey.
"Arms up, young master."
"Turn."
"No, turn the other way."
Ryn complied, though every passing second made his soul quietly leave his body. By the time someone kneeled to measure his inseam, his face was burning.
