Dax returned in the same way that storms return to coastlines: unaffected by borders and already inside your bones before you saw him.
The palace adjusted around his arrival with that quiet choreography only long-practiced fear and respect could produce. Corridors cleared without anyone being told to clear them. Doors opened a second before he reached them. Security shifted like a living net, not because Dax needed it, but because everyone else did.
Rowan met him first, as protocol demanded and as habit required.
Dax looked the chief of security over once and nodded. "He behaved?"
Rowan's mouth tightened in a way that suggested he had many opinions and liked living too much to share them. "He sat down."
"That's not an answer," Dax said, voice mild.
Rowan's gaze flicked to the bags in Dax's hand - plural and suspiciously neat. "He… attempted to pace. The cat prevented a diplomatic incident."
Dax's mouth curved. "Good."
