The apology didn't sound like surrender.
It sounded like a man swallowing glass because he'd decided it was better than watching the room crack.
Or, better yet, Sahir apologized for ending the fight he couldn't win, but because his intentions were good, he didn't feel obligated to mean it.
For a heartbeat, Dax didn't respond.
His posture remained too rigid, his mantle too perfect, the stillness of a king deciding whether to accept an apology as closure or dismiss it as weakness.
Rowan's gaze remained steady, alert to the subtle danger that always accompanied the word 'sorry' in powerful rooms: the impulse to go too far.
Anna didn't move. She was breathing quietly, like any sound might jinx the outcome.
Chris studied Dax's profile - his jaw, the tightness at the corner of his mouth, the armor-like restraint he wore - before speaking, his voice calm enough to bridge the gap.
"Dax," Chris said, not sharp, just steady. "He said it."
Dax's eyes flicked to him.
