The knock came precisely three times, measured, polite, and entirely too confident for someone who valued self-preservation.
Chris groaned into his pillow. "If this is the gods coming for me, tell them I'm in hell already."
"It isn't," came Killian's voice from the other side of the door, smooth, patient, and utterly unbothered. "Though, given the state of your schedule, I might recommend early retirement."
Dax's amused hum was the only warning before he said, "Enter."
The door opened with the quiet efficiency of a man who had seen too much and judged none of it, outwardly, at least. Killian stepped inside, posture immaculate, steel-gray eyes sweeping the room once. He paused for a fraction of a second, taking in the disarray of the bed, the half-draped sheets, and the faint shimmer of golden light still hanging in the air like afterburn, before looking back to Dax as if nothing were amiss.
"Your Majesty," he said evenly. "You're positively radiant today."
