The ink on his fingers had dried to a patchwork of black and gray. He rose, muscles stiff from the hours hunched over paper, and moved to the window.
Dawn smudged the horizon with ash and lavender. The temple bells changed tone; what had been ritual tolls an hour earlier now sounded like alarms rolling through the valley. Lights flickered along the streets below as convoys formed dark silhouettes against the pale sky, silent and efficient.
Dax buttoned his collar, the fabric catching slightly on his wristwatch, and stepped onto the balcony. The city was waking. Faint engine sounds echoed off the hills. The movement was orderly and predictable, despite his chaotic nature. It should've calmed him. It didn't.
The door opened without a knock. Only one person in Saha ever ignored that boundary.
"Your Majesty," came Killian's voice, rougher than usual, taut.
Dax turned halfway, his white-blonde hair caught by the wind, one brow lifting. "You're supposed to be in the palace."
