The day before the ceremony arrived with peculiar tension, castle staff rushing about with barely controlled chaos as final preparations reached fever pitch. Raze had been fitted for formal attire that morning, tailors fussing over details with intensity suggesting anything less than perfection would constitute personal failure.
The outfit was magnificent despite his general discomfort with excessive formality. Deep blue coat with silver threading that matched his house colors, white shirt beneath, tailored pants that somehow managed to look elegant rather than ridiculous. The whole ensemble probably cost more than most families earned annually.
Sophie had visited that afternoon, bringing Mittens along for what she claimed was moral support but mostly seemed like an excuse to escape her own ceremony preparations.
"You look fancy," she observed, studying his formal appearance critically. "Very lordly."
"I look like I'm attending my own execution," Raze replied.
