"There are none that outweigh his health." Dax didn’t raise his voice, but the tone made even Cressida reconsider her position.
"We have a full schedule today. Two instructors rearranged state commitments for this morning."
"And they will be compensated," Dax replied, not unkindly. He set his coffee down. "But the schedule is changing."
Serathine exhaled slowly. "Dax."
"He is not a project," Dax continued. "He is not to be reshaped in four weeks into an ideal that suits anyone’s nostalgia or expectation."
Cressida’s jaw tightened. "No one is attempting to ’reshape’ him. We are preparing him for the life he has chosen."
"He did not choose the pace," Dax said, leaning back, the sun glinting over his traditional gold mantle. "You should remember something. He is not Lucas."
Cressida didn’t flinch at the name, but the air shifted. Serathine went still in the way people do when something true has landed exactly where it needed to.
"No," Serathine said quietly. "He is not."
Cressida’s expression didn’t break, but there was a very slight drop in her shoulders, the smallest concession to reflection. "Lucas had the structure. He was raised within the system. He understood posture, forms of address, and the weight of silence in a room," she said. "Christopher did not receive that. He needs to learn it, or the court will devour him."
"And he will learn it," Dax said. "But not at a pace designed for someone who already knows the language. You are speaking to him in fluency and expecting him to answer without an accent."
Serathine’s lips curved into understanding. "Then we slow the lesson schedule. Good." She sighed. "I’ve never liked the dance professor anyways."
Cressida’s mouth twitched in acknowledgment of shared suffering. "He counts every misstep like a military infraction. I’ve seen ministers crack under less."
Dax didn’t bother masking his agreement. "There is no event scheduled in which Christopher is expected to perform choreography before cameras or parliament. Dance can wait."
Cressida gave a short nod. "Then it is removed." She made a note in the slim leather folio she carried, her handwriting precise enough to cut glass.
Serathine eased into one of the armchairs, lines of fatigue and wisdom sitting together comfortably on her face. "Presence and social read first. Then language. Then response strategy."
"Exactly," Dax answered. "That should be enough for now. He will be introduced gradually, and if any minister wishes to test his life span, they may provoke me."
"Did the war council move here?" Chris asked from the doorway. His black hair was damp from a shower he took after waking up. He was dressed simply in a dark green shirt and ivory slacks.
All three of them turned.
Chris leaned against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely at his side. He looked more rested, but not fully, like someone who had slept just long enough to remember what exhaustion felt like. His eyes, however, were clear.
He took in the scene: Cressida with her folio half-closed, Serathine settled as though this were already a decision of some weight, and Dax seated with the quiet confidence of a man who had decided the outcome before anyone else entered the room.
"I suppose that means we are discussing my fate," Chris said, not sharp, just direct.
"Your schedule," Serathine corrected gently.
"And your foundation," Cressida added.
Dax extended his arm towards him, the movement accompanied by the glimmering of his mantle. Chris took his hand and found himself between the king’s legs.
Chressida raised a brow with amusement in her deep blue eyes but wisely said nothing.
Dax drew Chris a little closer by the hand, settling him in front of him without making a scene of it, or so he thought. Chris didn’t pull away.
Serathine’s smile was small but real. "We have adjusted your lesson schedule."
Chris blinked once, slowly. "Adjusted how?"
"No dance," Cressida said, which was as close as she came to mercy.
Chris made a sound that was almost reverent.
"Oh, thank God."
He dragged a hand down his face. "He counts breathing errors. I think he was trying to summon my soul out of my body to correct my posture. I’m pretty sure he hates oxygen. Please send him back to whatever dimension he crawled out of."
Serathine covered a quiet laugh behind her hand.
Cressida didn’t laugh, but her eyes definitely narrowed in what might have been agreement. "He is... thorough."
"He is a demon with good posture," Chris corrected.
"Yes," Dax said evenly. "And he is no longer part of your schedule."
Chris relaxed visibly, just slightly, his shoulders losing some of the defensive tension that always crept in when he expected the next demand.
"...I’ll accept that trade," he said. "History can stay. I can survive that. But the dance instructor... please send him to hell, or Rohan, whichever is crueler."
Serathine let out a soft exhale, slow and warm. "History will remain. Only two hours a week. We will focus on context, not memorization."
"And court presence," Cressida added. "How to enter a room. How to maintain your ground without posturing. How to silence a minister without speaking. Those are the lessons that matter."
Chris blinked. "Can’t that be achieved by imitating Dax’s frown?"
Dax didn’t say anything at first; he simply raised one eyebrow, his expression sharp enough to cut glass. His violet eyes narrowed, deeply amused.
Serathine’s mouth twitched.
Cressida looked personally offended by the idea. "No," she said flatly. "Dax’s frown is a diplomatic weapon and should not be used without cause. It is equivalent to mobilizing troops."
Chris considered that.
"...So what you’re saying is that it works."
Dax exhaled a soft laugh under his breath. The sound was warm. Pleased. And entirely unhelpful.
Cressida pinched the bridge of her nose with the grace of someone who had brokered peace treaties during active gunfire. "Christopher, you cannot simply ’use’ a king’s aura to get through a meeting."
"I mean, I could," Chris said thoughtfully. "I just shouldn’t."
"Correct," Serathine supplied gently.
Chris nodded, accepting the answer like a student agreeing not to set the chemistry lab on fire.
Cressida lowered her hand. "Good. Now..."
Chris cut in, not rude, just honest. "Look. I want to learn this. I do. I just don’t want to lose myself in the process."
Something in the room eased at that, because that had always been the point.
Serathine nodded once. "Then we teach you how to stand in the room as yourself, not as a replica of anyone else."
Chris let out a slow breath, the kind that releases tension rather than shows defeat. "Okay. That, I can do."
Dax, still sitting, let his fingers rest lightly at the side of Chris’s hip.
Cressida closed the folio. "Then we begin at noon. Breakfast first. And real breakfast," she added pointedly. "Not the one you pick at."
Chris gave her a look that could only be described as rude politeness.
"I eat."
"Not enough," Serathine replied. "And certainly not enough to endure my lessons."
Chris sighed. "Fine. Food. Then lessons. Then dignity slowly removed, I assume."
"No," Cressida said. "Dignity is the only thing we are not altering. The rest is technique."
Chris blinked. "That’s... surprisingly reassuring."
She shrugged. "Survival has a structure."
Dax finally spoke again, voice low and even. "Come on. Before any of this turns into theory at seven in the morning."