A discreet knock at the edge of the royal box broke through the metallic shriek currently passing for music.
Chris straightened instinctively, his posture snapping into consort-perfect alignment despite his lower back protesting the movement. Dax glanced over, and a moment later Rowan slipped inside with the silent efficiency of someone who had spent years navigating kings, crises, and the occasional scandal.
Rowan's face was expressionless, professionally blank, the way only a man who had seen far too much could manage. In one hand, he carried a folded program. In the other… nothing visible.
Which meant the "nothing" was important.
He bowed slightly. "Your Majesty. Your Highness."
Dax gave a faint nod, granting him permission to speak.
Rowan stepped forward just enough to reach Chris, leaning in as though pointing out something on the stage. His voice was soft, pitched for them alone.
