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."
"I was." Killian crossed the threshold, shutting the door behind him. His usually pristine appearance was frayed around the edges: shawl askew, dark circles under his eyes, phone still in hand. "There’s been another attempt."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Dax’s posture straightened, every trace of fatigue erased in a second. "Another?"
"Fourth one," Killian said, walking closer. "We caught it before the tray reached the suite. Rowan’s men intercepted the delivery outside the private wing. The omega doesn’t know. Nadia and the security team handled it before anyone panicked."
Dax didn’t breathe for a moment; his entire focus was on not returning to the palace at that moment. Then he asked quietly, dangerously, "How?"
"Poison," Killian said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Glazed on the pastries. Would’ve triggered seizures and cardiac arrest within minutes."
The muscles along Dax’s jaw flexed. "Who was behind it?"
"One of the external catering staff. Fake ID, clergy connections through the Holy Relief mission." Killian’s tone flattened. "She didn’t have time to say much before swallowing something, the guards could stop her."
Dax’s hands closed into fists. Ink cracked along his knuckles. "What did she say?"
Killian’s eyes flicked up, grim. "She said the omega doesn’t wear your mark or collar. Her words, not mine, were that a ’whore has no right to live in a king’s palace.’"
The sound that came out of Dax wasn’t a word but a low exhale through his teeth. He turned toward the desk, planted both hands against it, and stared down at the paperwork until the letters blurred into black streaks.
"Of course she did," he said finally, voice low. "They’re still preaching purity while selling human organs."
Killian watched him for a moment, then dropped the formal tone altogether. "You need to sleep, Dax."
He gave a humorless laugh. "Sleep? When people are still trying to murder my omega in his own home?" He pushed a hand through his hair, leaving a smear of ink near his temple. "I can’t even give him breakfast without a security scan."
Killian crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Rowan’s already switched suppliers and cleared the staff. The kitchen’s locked down tighter than the damn treasury. Chris doesn’t know anything, he just thinks we’re overhauling safety protocols again."
"Good," Dax said. "Let him keep thinking that."
"He’ll figure it out eventually," Killian warned. "He’s smart. And you can’t hide paranoia behind coffee audits forever."
Dax glanced up, golden eyes sharp under the tiredness. "Then let him think I’m overprotective. I’d rather he be angry than scared."
Killian studied him for a second, then sighed. "You sound like your grandfather."
"Careful," Dax muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Someone had to say it." Killian’s tone softened, still irritated but fond. "You’re carrying the entire country on four hours of sleep and caffeine. And now you’ve got a religious cult trying to off your partner because of a missing piece of jewelry."
Dax’s gaze darkened. "They are trying to distract my attention from them... again. There would be others that would try to undermine Christopher’s place by my side without that damn collar."
Killian’s mouth curved, just slightly. "Your omega has survived unknown suppression therapy, political crossfire, and your schedule. He can deal with a collar worth the entire GDP of a small country."
Dax huffed out a breath that could’ve been a laugh or a growl. "Twenty million crowns," he said, rubbing at the smear of ink drying on his wrist. "The jeweler called it a miracle of craftsmanship. I call it a down payment on peace."
Killian raised a brow. "Peace? You’re purging half the clergy and commissioning something that looks like a coronation piece for your omega. That’s not peace. That’s war wrapped in diamonds."
"That’s the point." Dax turned back toward the window, voice lowering. "They want to make him a symbol of shame. I’ll make him the one thing they can’t touch. The moment that collar’s on him, no priest, no politician, no opportunist will dare question what he is to me." His reflection in the glass looked as sharp as the sunrise behind it. "With or without a mark, they’ll see who he belongs to."
Killian let out a quiet whistle. "You’re aware that, symbolically speaking, that’s the kind of sentence that starts revolutions."
Dax glanced at him over his shoulder, purple eyes hard. "Then they can revolt. I’ll give them something to pray about."
Killian shook his head, half fond, half exasperated. "You really are your grandfather’s heir."
"Don’t start," Dax said, but his mouth curved faintly. "He’d have approved."
"Oh, he’d be proud," Killian said dryly. "And he’d tell me to make sure you actually eat before you burn another institution to the ground."
"Noted." Dax’s hand twitched toward the files on the desk, then fell away. "The jeweler?"
"Still awake," Killian said, checking his phone. "Rowan’s team has his studio under guard. The frame’s done; the setting will be finished by tomorrow night. Delivery scheduled directly to the palace vaults. Nadia already cleared the materials for skin compatibility. If your omega’s neck so much as reddens from the clasp, the man’s losing fingers."
Dax nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Good. When it’s ready, I’ll bring it myself."
"Not send it?"
He turned fully then, jaw tightening. "No. It’s not a press statement, Killian. It’s personal. He’ll wear it because I ask him to, not because the country demands it."
That silenced the older man for a moment. The air between them softened, the noise of the city creeping back in. the hum of engines and the distant toll of the bells now half-drowned by sirens. Killian studied him quietly, then spoke again, gentler.
"You know he doesn’t need it to prove anything, right? He already chose you."
"I know." Dax’s voice was low, a rare thread of honesty slipping through the steel. "But the world doesn’t. And until it learns to stop confusing absence of a mark with weakness, he’ll have mine."