Late spring had reached the palace in the quiet, expensive way it reached most things in Saha: with warm light on polished stone, windows left open in the private wings, and gardens so aggressively in bloom that even Rowan had begun muttering about maintenance budgets like a man personally insulted by beauty.
In the royal suite, however, the evening had narrowed into paperwork, suspicion, and a toddler.
Jax Soraya Altera sat in Dax's lap with the unshakable authority of a two-year-old who believed all large furniture belonged to him by right. He had Chris's black hair, Dax's purple eyes, and the kind of grave concentration only toddlers and heads of state seemed able to sustain while doing completely unreasonable things. At present, he was turning one of Dax's signet rings around and around with both hands as if attempting to solve monarchy mechanically.
Dax let him.
