The embassy reeked of gold and deceit. Incense burned in shallow dishes along the marble walls, struggling to hide the smell of too many perfumes and too much power. The ceilings glittered with imported glass, everything too ornate, as if Rohan's wealth could disguise its rot.
Dax crossed the hall in silence, each step measured, his presence enough to make servants flatten themselves against the walls. The moment the doors to his private suite closed behind him, the mask cracked.
He ripped the gold-threaded shawl from his shoulders and threw it over the nearest armchair. The heavy fabric slid down the back, pooling like spilled sunlight on the floor. His jacket followed, dark, immaculate, and now wrinkled beyond redemption, landing on top of it.
"Killian," he said, voice low, roughened by the days he'd gone without sleep.
