The robe settled across his shoulders like a second spine.
It wasn't heavy, not exactly, but it held weight in all the places that mattered. Gabriel stood still, trying not to shift under the last-minute flurry of adjustments, as Gloria circled him like a force of nature armed with pins and divine indignation.
The embroidery traced along the back of the robe in delicate, silver-threaded curves—cool in tone, intricate without being gaudy. It started at the hem and climbed upward, winding like ethereal calligraphy over his spine, before framing the mark on his neck with deliberate care.
Gloria's voice was a sharp whisper as she adjusted the fall of the sleeves for the fourth time. "Do not wrinkle this robe before you even walk out there."
"I'm breathing," Gabriel muttered. "That's the best I can offer right now."
