Five years later, Dax's office had acquired the polished stillness of a room that knew too much and revealed almost nothing.
The late afternoon light came in hard and gold through the high windows, breaking over dark wood, steel accents, structured glass, and the quiet severity of a working royal office that had long ago stopped needing theatrics to feel powerful. Files sat in neat stacks. Screens slept in black reflection. The city beyond the palace windows shimmered under summer heat, distant and expensive and obedient in the way cities only ever looked from this height.
Dax sat behind his desk, a pen in one hand and a file open in front of him, his demeanor usually indicating that someone else was about to suffer from his intelligence.
The door opened without ceremony.
Nero stepped in already annoyed.
