Kuja enters the room as if he belongs there, unhesitatingly, striding through the doorway, his pointed shoes clicking against the floor. The grandeur suits him, is familiar to him, and his own robes are fine, his garments glittering as he comes to stand before Nephrite. He's noted the man's pose, and even for one with as little empathy as Kuja, his state of mind is obvious.

"The king looks uneasy on his throne."