Leander stared at himself in the mirror, running his fingers over the intricate embroidery of his new vest. The way the golden thread spun over and over, wrapping him in flowers and cyan. He hadn’t expected much when he had given Mirari the money - he had been happy to do it, to have a physical way to gain favor. Getting something back for it felt… strange.

He turned to view himself from another angle. Leander had imagined himself to be many things over the years. In his wildest dreams, he’d imagined himself a chicken farmer, a sailor, an adventurer, a pirate. He had never once imagined himself… fanciful. The white of the shirt only seemed to highlight the ghastly hue of his skin, which seemed to stay no matter how much he shifted his skin tone. The high collar seemed to draw attention to his scars. The attention to detail seemed to nearly highlight how the time would’ve been better used on a more deserving soul. To Leander, it felt like putting lipstick on a morally corrupt pig.

But despite it all, he couldn’t help but adore it. Even if it didn’t look right on him, it was his. Of course, there had been moments where Trisphar allowed him to borrow his clothes for parties and high class events. But even then, he had always been a shadow. A borrower. These clothes belonged to him. They were his. No one could take them from him. Not without a swift knife to the throat, anyhow.

If he closed his eyes, he could try to imagine another life when he had been this person. A nobleman chosen to grow up in Soleil. He would’ve risen with the sun and sunk with the moon. Perhaps gotten a quiet job in the government. Perhaps he would’ve been a scribe at the Spire, spending his days tucked away in the vast rows of knowledge. Or more realistically, he could’ve made it as an artisan in the Blue District. Perhaps his nimble fingers would have excelled in potion making or cobbling, instead of picking locks and slicing arteries.

He took off his vest for the 4th time, folding it neatly. A moment later, he hastily put it back on. It was a push and pull, two desires gnashing their teeth at each other. The need to put on the vest and never take it off again, and to hide a prized possession away from the cruelties of the world. If Mirari ever died, he would have nothing left but this. And much more likely, when he died, he wanted to die wearing the vest.

His gaze flicked to Willow. There were worse days to die, after all.