The diplomatic wing of Saha's palace had been renovated twice in the last decade, and it still couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
It carried the bones of old royalty - wide corridors, carved archways, guards placed like statues - but it had been dragged, kicking and offended, into a modern era where paperwork moved faster than bullets and press leaks could start wars without anyone leaving their office.
Sirius Alaric of Palatine walked through it like a man born to marble and pressure.
He wore diplomacy the way most men wore a coat - buttoned, smooth, and meant to hide how cold it was underneath. His escort moved with him in careful choreography, Palatine security and Sahan security matching pace, earpieces in, hands near holsters out of habit, and eyes always scanning.
Beside him, Ethan looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Not because Ethan wasn't capable. He was. Too capable, when he had to be.
