"Your hair is getting longer again, Your Highness," Cashew whispered softly, his hands carefully parting and combing through the silken strands of lavender hair.
The boy's touch was gentle—meticulous. The kind of delicate care only someone who truly admired Florian could give.
It had been a few hours since the chaos of the morning, and now only thirty minutes remained before Florian had to meet with Heinz. Time was slipping through his fingers, and though he sat there in front of the mirror, trying to appear composed, panic prickled beneath the surface of his skin.
'Calm down. Breathe. You've survived worse.'
Thankfully, Drizelous had been hard at work fixing the damaged outfit in the corner of the room. He was unusually silent, save for the occasional string of muttered praises to himself or curses directed at the fabric.
