A few weeks didn't just change the private wing.
They changed the headlines.
Altera's 'national future' had been rebranded into Altera's 'miracle,' then into Altera's 'routine,' because that was what Saha did better than anyone else on the planet: it ate panic, processed it, and spat out stability with a seal stamped in gold.
The palace had stopped hovering like Nero might detonate.
Not because the danger had vanished, but because Saha's system had clicked into place. Layers. Protocols. The quiet, unwavering competence of a kingdom that had no business being so efficient and yet was.
Chris was the queen of that kingdom.
The kind with ministers, satellites, and markets that flexed when Saha moved its weight. Other nations politely referred to it as a 'kingdom' because it sounded less threatening than it actually was.
An empire, if Dax ever cared about the vocabulary.
He didn't.
He cared about control.
And about Chris.
