The receiving lounge was quiet in the way rooms meant for heads of state always were. Rooms that are too big and too well-balanced and where every piece of furniture is positioned to imply comfort but actually enforce distance. Light poured in through high windows, catching on glass and polished stone, on flags and discreet security details positioned just out of the main line of sight.
Caelan of Palatine stood when they entered. A man used the entire room to revolve around him.
"Dax," he said, with the ease of someone who had known him a long time. Then his gaze shifted to Chris, assessing in a single, precise sweep before softening into something carefully warm. "And you must be Christopher. At last, properly."
Chris inclined his head, polite, open, and every inch the consort the world believed him to be. "Your Majesty."
Caelan smiled as if they were already equals in some unspoken circle. As if Chris were not a newly married consort but a piece on the same board.
