This had somehow become a crisis.
Not the kind involving policy meetings or geopolitical tension. A far more personal, far more exhausting crisis involving dignity, tradition, and one extremely determined king.
Christopher was moving through the palace with one purpose, walking like a man who had decided momentum was his only weapon left. He carried the garment bag over one arm with the same care one would reserve for irreplaceable relics or unstable explosives. Behind him, Dax followed with unwavering patience, matching his pace without any sign of giving up. And behind Dax, padding silently and confidently, came the white tiger, who had apparently decided that wherever Chris went, it must also be there.
"Chris," Dax called after him, still calm, still polite, which somehow made the whole thing more unsettling. "Let me see it."
"No," Christopher replied, without slowing, without turning, as if the refusal were built into the structure of the universe.
