Lunch was set in the smaller dining room off the conference corridor in one of those rooms that existed specifically for conversations meant to be civil, private, and quietly decisive.
The table had been laid with Sahan traditional food in a way that bordered on ceremonial: warm flatbreads brushed with oil and herbs, small bowls of spiced yogurt and roasted peppers, grilled lamb cut into neat portions, rice fragrant with saffron, pickled vegetables arranged like jeweled offerings, and a platter of sweets that looked harmless until you remembered Saha didn't do harmless.
Wine waited in pre-poured dark and expensive glasses.
Sirius arrived first, posture controlled, expression diplomatic, the kind of composure that had been drilled into him until it lived under his skin.
Dax entered like the room had been built for him.
