Sahir didn't look at Rowan. He looked at Dax first, because Sahir was Sahir, and loyalty had rank in his bones. Then he looked at Chris.
His gaze softened the moment it landed on the bed. On Chris, propped up and still pale in that way healing left behind. On the enormous white tiger at the foot of the bed, watching him like she could smell treason. On the small, bundled weight against Chris's chest.
The heir.
Sahir inhaled slowly.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady, addressing Chris with the same respect he used in council.
Chris's mouth twitched, unimpressed. "Don't 'Your Majesty' me in my bed."
Sahir's lips pulled into something that wasn't quite a smile but was close. "As you command."
He took one step in.
Then another.
Every movement was measured, like he didn't trust his own body not to betray him by rushing. Like he'd rehearsed composure so many times it had become armor.
