The East Wing dining hall was already full.
Long windows let in the last of the summer light, gilding the table's polished surface with a warm glow. At the far end sat Sahir in his silver mantle, flanked by two deputy ministers, quietly discussing something in clipped tones. Serathine was already reclined in her seat like a social general surveying the terrain, while Cressida sat with perfect posture, fork poised mid-air like a weapon. Several members of the inner circle wore deep violet, each of them turning subtly as the doors opened.
Silence bloomed.
Dax didn't pause. He strode forward with the quiet certainty of a man who knew he was both expected and feared. Chris matched him step for step, not glancing at the stares he could feel press like heat against his skin. The scent in the air was wrong. Or rather, it was Dax. Woven through the room like a threaded warning: he is mine.
Dax stopped halfway down the table, just before the head.
