The dinner, mercifully, did not begin as a nightmare.
It began as a political opera, muted elegance, quiet hierarchy, expensive crystal, and the soft rustle of diplomats adjusting their mantles with the delusion that they would control the tone of the evening.
Rowan walked one careful step behind Chris, the perfect picture of stoic professionalism, even if internally he was taking notes on every possible angle from which Dax might accidentally, or purposefully, terrify someone.
The East Wing dining hall was understated by Sahan standards: warm lighting, carved sandstone columns, and a long obsidian table that made every attendee look like they had signed an ancient prophecy. Ministers from four bordering nations were already seated, their attendants whispering translations and strategic reminders.
When Dax and Chris entered, the room rose.
