"His Royal Consort, Christopher of Saha."
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed.
Despite his constant prodding, Chris never showed Dax what he was wearing, and Dax never really insisted.
And most of all, Dax hadn't seen Chris since the attendants had taken him away, not since tradition and protocol and an entire state apparatus had decided they could not be in the same room until this precise, choreographed moment.
And then Christopher appeared.
Ivory and gold, light and intentional defiance of modesty, the robe falling in soft, dangerous folds, the neckline exactly as deep as Dax had known - had hoped - it would be. The cut framed his throat, his collarbones, and the elegant, lethal grace of him. The jewelry caught the light. The tiara, Dax's absurd, extravagant, violet-eyed madness, rested on his dark hair like it had always belonged there.
A consort. His consort.
Dax smiled, and most of the people present felt like they should leave.
