The city below Altera's windows burned with its usual, domestic heat, lamps glowing in the fog, glass towers pulsing faintly with the breath of generators, and the slow machinery of a capital that never slept. From the royal office, the streets looked tidy, almost serene, like a ledger that had finally balanced. Bridges repaired, markets full, laws enforced. From where Dax stood, dressed and newly washed, it looked instead like an equation written in blood and traded favors. Every solution had a price, and he had paid for most of them himself.
He hadn't moved in hours. His hair was still damp, the whiskey on the desk half gone. The water had stripped the scent of smoke and blood from his skin but hadn't taken the heaviness from his chest. Christopher's voice lingered there with that gut-wrenching tone.
'Go to hell.'
