The bathwater steamed faintly, the scent of cedar and bergamot clinging to the marble walls. The embassy's private suite had been built to impress visiting heads of state, with black stone polished to a mirror sheen, golden fixtures gleaming under soft lamplight, and every inch a declaration of wealth and excess. Dax sank deeper into the tub, the water sliding over his shoulders, washing away three days of diplomacy and the bitter aftertaste of restraint.
He had dismissed Killian half an hour ago. The man had lingered, as he always did, making sure the towels were warm and the teapot stayed within reach before leaving with a quiet bow and the faint disapproval of someone who had long accepted that his king did not know how to rest properly.
