A mantle of divine radiance and regality, gleaming as if woven from the strands of dawn. The robe stands upright in golden velvet—its folds rich with authority, its collar and cuffs edged in deep black like the boundary between heaven and earth. Above it, a crown hovers mid-air, untouched yet undeniable. Gold arches cradle crimson velvet, and fleur-de-lis rise like flames—declaring appointment before contact.
 
This is not just a garment—it’s a throne in motion. The robe waits for the one chosen. The crown does not fall—it descends.