"…I haven't done anything…"
The sentence fell apart mid-air, collapsing under its own lack of conviction.
And then the door opened.
The guards shifted wordlessly. Rowan stepped aside, not out of deference, but to make space for the arrival of someone who required none.
Dax entered first.
He moved with the kind of unbothered authority that made space bend around him, dressed in midnight blue stitched with gold, the collar of his coat as sharp as his gaze. His white-blonde hair fell past his shoulders in soft waves, catching the low balcony lights like spilled moonlight. The violet of his eyes burned cold.
