Dax had shaken twenty-seven hands, received twelve gifts, ignored four veiled insults, and smiled at least twice, out of pure political malice.
The ballroom was obscenely polished. Every pillar and every inch of gilded arch and backlit marble had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. The light glowed just warm enough to flatter skin tones and cold enough to feel expensive. One could almost forget they were in a place built for wars of etiquette and the occasional declared vendetta.
And that's only because Dax got his hands on the guest seating after Killian signed it as final and strategically placed enemies at the same table.
Dax stood at the top of the dais, posture flawless, suit tailored so perfectly the military might've considered it a threat. A black jacket, gold thread along the collar, and his family's crest at the left shoulder like a burn. The King's Mantle draped behind him, gleaming gold in silent warning.
He wasn't paying attention to the speeches.
