He wears teeth he was never given. The lions on his shoulders bare their own, the way predators do plainly, as warning. His mouth is open too, but underneath the borrowed snarl is a jaw built for grass, not for anything it now guards. The gold was fitted to him. The fangs at his crown, the armor's threat, the whole shape of something dangerous none of it grew there. It was made elsewhere and set onto him, piece by piece, until the costume read as real. Now the hands are back, closing around gold that was only ever on loan, finding exactly what a sheep's mouth was always going to have behind it.