Garen rises from the table, stubbing out the cigar in the ashtray beside him.
Until that moment, he seemed almost too comfortable for a king. He wore a light, thick, soft tunic, open at the neck, with discreet embroidery in deep blue along the sleeves. No crown. No ceremonial cloak. Just dark trousers, well-kept boots, and a presence that could walk into a room in rags and still make everyone remember where the throne was.
Then his posture changes.
It isn't dramatic. It's imposing.
His shoulders square, his chin drops a fraction, and the calm of a good-humored man gives way to something else. A king on his way to meet people he'd rather drown.
"I have to go," Garen says, loosening the collar of his tunic. "I've got unwelcome people to meet."
He snaps his fingers in front of his body.
The armor appears.
