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When the haircut was done, Sekhmet stood and put on clean clothes. Not fancy noble robes yet. Simple black trousers, a clean shirt, and then the nightmare-grade coat and boots.
The coat felt different than normal fabric.
It was heavy in a good way, like wearing protection that trusted you.
Sekhmet flexed his fingers.
The coat did not restrict movement at all.
He looked in the mirror.
For the first time, he did not look like a man dragged out of a cage.
He looked like someone who had survived.
He left the bath chamber and headed toward the main hall.
He expected his father.
He expected the butler — (his father's butler) "uncle," the man who ran Dawn House like a fortress disguised as a home.
Instead, he found an empty hall.
The servants bowed as he walked past, but none announced his father's arrival.
Sekhmet's steps slowed.
He grabbed the older maid as she passed.
"Where is my father," he asked.
The maid hesitated.
"He is out," she said carefully.
