It was in the way she walked. The way each graceful stride led with the point of her foot beneath the flowing swish of her gauzy silk skirts. 

Taric had designed her “shoes” well.

He felt a small smile take shape on his lips as his thoughts flicked back to sketching out that last, stubborn set - but as his glance absently lifted from the last princess’s distinctive strides, he found himself second guessing his assessment.

A second look - and a third - had his brows furrowing as he started worrying that he’d made a mistake in the design after all. The only thing about her that was loose and flowing was her skirts; all of the rest of her was strictly bound up. Her bronze bodice may as well have been a breastplate and her sleeves pauldrons. The gloves on her neatly folded hands were so fitted they must have been sewn onto her fingers. Silk wraps braided tightly from wrist upward until they disappeared beneath her sleeves, and her high collar hugged the entire column of her slim neck. Her hair, the same color and gloss as burnished copper wire, was pulled back into a tight, unforgiving knot. Strangest of all, her pale, waxen face was completely immobile.

Her eyes, though - 

Sheer hatred boiled from her acid yellow eyes, affixed unswervingly on Taric.