The Belvare delegation had arranged the hall the way people always did when they wanted to pretend they were civilized: bright light, open space, glossy marble, and glass walls that promised transparency while making everyone feel watched. Long tables dressed in pale linen. Water pitchers. Carefully placed microphones. Flags standing in polite little rows like a threat dressed as décor.
And under it all, the pressure.
Not pheromones this time, Belvare had never been a place that respected the old instincts the way Saha did. The pressure came from men who'd spent years learning how to smile while they sharpened knives under the table.
A host in a dark suit approached with the careful enthusiasm of someone who had been given very specific instructions.
"Your Majesty," he began, voice warm. "Consort. Welcome to Belvare. We are honored—"
Dax's gaze moved over him once, assessing, in that quiet, predatory way that made the word 'welcome' sound like a joke.
