Killian walked through Alamina's palace like it had been built with his approval, his pace unhurried and his posture immaculate, accompanied by Hale and two of Otto's guards who had long since realized that 'escort' was a polite word for 'try to keep up.'
The palace was legendary for its grandeur, with arched ceilings carved like waves, corridors paved in pale stone that held the day's light like a memory, and windows tall enough to make even a king appear mortal beneath them.
Killian didn't look up.
He looked forward.
Because awe was for tourists, and he had a schedule.
His phone vibrated. Not a ring; Killian had standards, even for other people's chaos.
He pulled it from his pocket with practiced smoothness, and the steel in his gaze softened the moment he saw the caller.
Christopher.
He answered before the second vibration finished.
