Amber light spilled from the carved metal lanterns overhead, scattering warm shadows across the walls, their intricate latticework throwing patterns that moved with every breath of air. The geometric tiles gleamed beneath the table, polished to perfection, their cobalt and sand-colored motifs echoing the old desert houses of Saha’s first dynasty.
But beneath the antique charm, there was silence of another kind, mechanical and subtle. The hum of the temperature regulators built into the walls. The near-invisible glow of the glass interface that controlled the lighting. Even the air carried the faint, crisp undertone of ion filtration. Tradition on the surface, technology beneath, Dax’s entire empire summarized in one room.
And at the center of it, the king himself.
He sat at the far end of the long carved table, a figure caught between royal and human, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open, and yet somehow looking no less imperial for the effort. His version of casual meant deep navy silk and fine tailoring that caught the amber light like water. The faint glint of a ring brushed his knuckle when he lifted his glass, matching him so well that Chris felt out of place.
’What am I doing here? Should I bow? No, that would be hilarious at this point...’
Chris decided in the end to not bow, but he did incline his head slightly, halfway between respect and irritation. "Your Majesty," he said. "Or is it ’Your Sleeplessness’ tonight?"
Dax’s mouth curved in a smile that didn’t soften him so much as sharpen the edges already there.
"Careful," he said, his voice like heat passing through silk. "That one might stick."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tracing the rim of his glass before setting it down quietly. The faint chime of crystal against stone filled the space between them. "You’ve been watching me closely, then."
"Hard not to when you insist we share a bed," Chris said dryly. "You look like you haven’t slept in three nights."
Dax hummed, not quite agreeing, not denying either. "It wouldn’t be the first time," he said. "And before you start lecturing... no. I’m fine. Dominant alphas aren’t that easily undone."
Chris arched a brow. "So, what? The sleepless king routine builds character?"
A low laugh broke from Dax, the kind that hinted at genuine amusement beneath exhaustion. "Something like that." He studied the wine in his glass, then looked back up, eyes catching the lantern light until violet burned gold around the edges. "Though I admit, fatigue has its uses. It makes me curious about things I usually ignore."
Chris tilted his head. "Such as?"
Dax’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual. "You," he said. "Or rather... your pheromones."
For a second, Chris thought he’d misheard. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said..." Dax’s tone stayed calm, conversational, as if discussing the weather. "I’ve been wondering what kind of ability your pheromones carry."
Chris blinked. Once. Twice. "Are you hallucinating?"
A low chuckle escaped the king, his hand rising to rub the bridge of his nose like someone indulging a child. "No. Just observant. Dominant alphas or omegas develop abilities once their pheromones stabilize. A resonance between power and instinct. Mine manifests clearly."
He didn’t elaborate, but the air shifted slightly when he said it, something subtle, like pressure dropping before a storm.
A low chuckle escaped the king, his hand rising to rub the bridge of his nose like someone indulging a child.
Chris frowned. "And you think I have one of those?"
"Yes," Dax replied, without hesitation. "And that reminds me... where did you get the suppressants?"
His tone was even, deceptively calm, and came right before he decided to dismantle someone’s defenses brick by brick.
Chris raised a brow. "We had this talk in Palatine. Nothing changed, Dax. I won’t tell. If you find them on your own, fine. But not from me."
"Christopher..." Dax’s voice lowered, roughened by something that wasn’t anger. "They poisoned you. We don’t even know how much damage they caused..."
"Are you mad that you got the broken omega?" Chris cut in, bitterness curving around the words before he could stop it. "It doesn’t matter. The physicians and the clinic insisted I take a full panel. I refused. They warned me I could lose my fertility." He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "I didn’t care. If you’re looking for a scapegoat, you have one. Me."
The sound of the temperature regulators faded under the weight of it, and the golden light from the lanterns felt heavier somehow, slower.
Dax exhaled through his nose, gaze steady on him. He could see the walls rising behind Chris’s eyes, the way the omega folded in on himself, voice clipped, breath measured, like someone sealing off a wound before it could be touched.
He could have pressed further; gods knew he wanted to. But pushing him now would only drive him farther into those walls.
So instead, Dax leaned back, tilting his head slightly, letting the sharp edge in his tone dissolve into something almost conversational. "Fine," he said at last, a small concession wrapped in command. "Then tell me about the staff."
Chris blinked. "The staff?"
"The ones assigned to you," Dax clarified, tone lazy enough to almost sound harmless. "Hanna, Rowan, Marta... do they suit you?"
It was such a pivot that it took Chris a moment to catch up. He frowned, wary. "You’re changing the subject."
"Yes," Dax said simply. "Because you’re exhausted, and I’d rather not have you build another fortress in front of me tonight."
Chris looked away first. The amber light traced his cheekbone, catching on the faint tremor of irritation, or maybe fatigue, at the corner of his mouth. "They’re fine," he muttered after a pause. "Rowan’s overqualified. Hanna’s terrifying. Marta’s too kind for this palace."
Chris played with his wine glass, now filled with water as per Nadia’s recommendation for his recovery. "What is your ability?" He asked, his black eyes raising from the glass to the giant man in front of him.
Dax’s expression barely shifted, though the faintest spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Curiosity looks better on you than defiance," he said. "Careful, I might get used to it."
Chris just smiled at his words, reaching for his spoon as an attendant placed a plate with soup that looked like health and regret.
Dax let him take the first sip before answering, the silence stretching thin between them. Steam rose from the bowl, carrying the faint scent of saffron and something bitter, Nadia’s idea of medicine disguised as food.
"My ability," Dax said at last, his voice low enough that the attendants could pretend not to hear, "isn’t subtle."
Chris looked up, spoon hovering just above the rim of the bowl. ’Neither are you; I guess it matched the owner.’
"When I release my pheromones completely," Dax went on, "they can suffocate, crush the enemy, or make them bleed out." His fingers rested lightly on the table, the movement too measured for the violence in his words. "Armies have fallen before I even gave an order. Some faint, some claw for breath. The stronger ones crawl until I tell them to stop."
Chris lowered the spoon. The sound of metal against porcelain was small but sharp in the hush. "That sounds charming."
"Overpowered," Dax corrected. "And inconvenient." He paused, studying the line of steam that rose between them. "If I lose control, the effect carries farther than it should. Walls don’t contain it. Phones don’t, either. Once, during the southern campaign, a commander dropped his weapon mid-call because I raised my voice."
Chris’s brows drew together. "You’re saying your pheromones travel through signals?"
"I’m saying that when I stop holding back," Dax replied evenly, "people can’t breathe."
"So you are a bioweapon?"