SERAPHINA’S POV
The next morning, I took Daniel to be fitted for his ceremonial attire.
For generations, the Blackthorne family had trusted a single tailor—Henry Whitlow, an elderly craftsman whose hands, though lined with age, still carried the precision of decades spent dressing Nightfang Alphas.
These days, Henry mostly sent his apprentice to handle fittings, but for this occasion, Kieran had insisted on having the old man himself oversee every stitch of Daniel’s outfit.
“It’s tradition,” Kieran had said when we spoke about it last night, his voice carrying a subtle stiffness and politeness. “Henry tailored my first ceremonial coat. And my father’s. It’s only right that he makes Daniel’s, too.”
Kieran had offered to take him, but Daniel insisted on going with me. I woul
