The evening air was warm, autumn warmth that lingered on Saha long after sunset. The terrace doors to the private dining suite were open, letting in the faint hum of the court below, which could have easily been its own city. The Altera palace was an infrastructure based on Dax’s obsession with order and control, and for once Chris couldn’t blame him. The royal court of Saha, modern as it was, was ruthless, especially to those considered outsiders. He understood why he had to go through all of the intense preparations, but God, Chris hated every minute of it.
Inside, the light was low and gold. A single bottle of red wine waited on the table, understated luxury that still somehow whispered royal budget.
Chris sank into his chair, exhausted but trying not to show it. He learned that Dax had a liking to luxury and not in the way all rich people do, but he was... ’A strict motherfucker satisfied only by elite.’ But Chris couldn’t say that out loud. Not because Dax would be angry, but because the king disliked hearing him swear.
He looked at the man in front of him, Dax, his shoulder-length blonde hair swept back, his purple eyes almost unnatural, dressed in what could only be described as casual: a white shirt with traditional sahan golden embroidery, a gold thin chain, and, damn it, a gold watch.
Dax poured the wine himself, as he always did when they were the only ones present, as if he didn’t trust anyone else not to ruin the ritual.
He glanced up briefly, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth. "You look like someone who’s survived a week of diplomacy bootcamp."
"I have," Chris said flatly. "And if Cressida assigns me one more posture drill, I’m defecting to the enemy state."
Dax chuckled quietly, making Chris almost shiver. "You don’t have the paperwork clearance for that."
"Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try."
The king leaned back, elbow resting on the chair’s arm, eyes glinting faintly under the soft light. "You lasted longer than Serathine predicted."
"That’s not comforting."
"It wasn’t meant to be." Dax sipped his wine, studying him over the rim. "So. Tell me what you learned."
Chris blinked. "You’re kidding."
"Not at all." Dax set down the glass, the movement unsettlingly elegant. "Consider this a review session."
"Oh my God," Chris muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Please tell me you are not going to test me."
"You can call it dinner with purpose," Dax corrected smoothly. "You’ve been studying for a week. I’d like to see results."
"And I’d like to work on-site in my field of expertise, not attend the royal school of Evrin Dax Altera of Saha, but here we are." Chris shot back, his black eyes narrowed over the glass of wine. "Or at least tranquilize me with some rum, not dinner wine."
Dax smiled, full teeth and charm. "You’re not drinking rum in my presence."
Chris arched a brow. "Why? Because it’s unroyal?"
"Because it’s chaos in a bottle," Dax replied evenly. "And I already have enough of that sitting across from me."
Chris leaned back, feigning offense. "You dragged me into a palace full of etiquette professors and then called me chaos?"
"I didn’t call you chaos," Dax said mildly, picking up his fork. "I called you the personification of it."
"That’s worse."
"Accurate," Dax countered.
Chris exhaled sharply through his nose. "You really can’t help yourself, can you?"
"No," Dax said simply. "Now eat."
"I thought this was a ’review session.’"
"It is," Dax said, his tone too calm to be reassuring. "I’ll ask a few questions. You’ll answer. If you get them wrong..." He gestured toward the covered dish in the center of the table. "You try the lamb."
Chris’s eyes narrowed instantly. "Absolutely not. We’ve discussed this."
"You’ve refused it," Dax corrected. "That is not the same as a discussion, and for the record, you cannot refuse food in public, even if you dislike it. I assume Cressida hasn’t gotten to that yet."
Chris frowned, stabbing his fork into a roasted potato like it had personally wronged him. "She did, right after the part where she forced me to memorize twelve different wine pairings for twelve different occasions. Apparently, the Kingdom will collapse if I serve fish with the wrong white."
Dax’s mouth twitched. "She’s not wrong."
"She’s insane," Chris countered. "And so are you if you think I’m eating lamb voluntarily."
Dax’s tone was perfectly mild. "You’ll change your mind when it’s mandatory."
"Nothing is mandatory if I move fast enough."
"You’re not fast enough," Dax said, then tapped the rim of his glass. "Now... let’s begin. Question one."
Chris groaned. "Unbelievable. You’ve turned dinner into an oral exam."
"I’m a generous monarch. I’ll start with something easy." Dax rested his chin on his hand, the posture deceptively relaxed. "When you accompany me to the birthday gala..."
Chris blinked. "Your birthday’s in what, two weeks?"
"Seventeen days," Dax confirmed without shame. "And since it’s also your official presentation to the public, you’ll need to remember a few things."
"Oh, fantastic. A double execution."
"Question one," Dax repeated patiently. "Who makes the first toast?"
Chris sighed, swirling his wine. "You do. Then the Prime Minister. Then Serathine, because she’s too polite not to. After that, I have to make the fourth toast as the ’honored companion of the Crown,’ which is code for human political prop."
Dax smiled faintly. "Correct, though the phrasing could use refinement."
"I could use a vacation."
"Question two," Dax continued as though he hadn’t heard him. "When the cameras turn to you during the national address, where do your hands rest?"
Chris hesitated. "Either on the table edge or lightly over my lap."
"Why?"
"Because it suggests dependence, or," Chris gestured vaguely, "whatever Cressida called it, ’emotional impropriety in public optics.’"
Dax chuckled, low and amused. "I prefer ’restraint.’"
"I prefer freedom of movement."
Dax ignored the jab. "Question three. When a journalist asks you about the significance of white and ivory in your attire, what do you say?"
Chris’s answer was immediate, dry as dust. "That it symbolizes balance and purity of judgment beside the crown. And that the King is not, in fact, allergic to color coordination."
Dax laughed quietly, the sound low and rich. "You memorized Serathine’s speech."
"I edited it," Chris said. "The original phrasing made me sound like a virginal statue with a press pass."
"You’re far from that," Dax murmured.
Chris cleared his throat, pretending to study his glass. "Next question before this gets weird."
"It already is," Dax said smoothly, "but all right. Final question."
"Please make it painless."
Dax leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "What do you intend to give me for my birthday?"