CHAPTER 118: CHAPTER 118: THE CHANGES (WIN-WIN)

The night air burned in his lungs, heavy with smoke and iron.

Dax stood on the temple’s front steps, his shadow cutting across the marble like a scar. The building behind him looked untouched, its spires gleaming in the pale light, its bells still whispering through the dark. From a distance, it would seem that worship continued as always. Only those who stepped inside would see the truth that the gods had changed, and their voices now served the Sahan Kingdom.

The priests were gone. Their bodies had been removed, replaced by his own men in identical robes and calm, unflinching faces. The hymns still rose through the halls, the same eerie songs, as if nothing had ever happened. The order was restored without the civilians being affected by it and most importantly, now the clergy bowed to the King and not their interest.

Only three temples were left across the country, still clinging to their illusions of divinity. The rest were already his to command.

Blood darkened the cuff of his coat, staining the grey wool black. His gloves was split at the seams. The metallic scent of his pheromones hung thick in the air, threaded with smoke and incense. The soldiers stationed at the courtyard perimeter avoided meeting his eyes.

Killian approached from the side arch, his coat brushing against the stone pillars. "That’s the last one for tonight," he said quietly. "The south reports no resistance. The replacements are in place."

"Good," Dax replied. His voice was hoarse from smoke and too many hours of silence. "Seal the gates and keep the facade intact. I don’t want a single whisper leaving this province."

Killian nodded once, understanding the order without question. "Understood."

When the steps behind him faded, the night settled again. Dax didn’t move. He should have felt something, relief, perhaps, but nothing came. The air felt wrong, weighted with the deaths of people that sold their kind for greed. There was an ache between his ribs, dull and persistent, that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as the last of the interference dropped. The screen lit up, filling with alerts, messages, and encrypted reports. He ignored most of them and opened a folder buried deep beneath the official channels, the one Chris thought that he didn’t know about. The one thing that grounded him in the world and kept him from going mad.

He named it Christopher’s diary.

Most of it was trivial: the quiet in the palace halls, irritation about fittings, and small thoughts that meant nothing to anyone but him. Dax had read them all anyway.

He opened it now. No new entries.

The last message was five days old. A brief note about Rowan stealing his coffee, a complaint about the new curtains, and a passing mention of the heat. Ordinary. Alive. And then... nothing.

No updates. No sarcastic remarks. No words at all.

The silence crawled under his skin. He stared at the empty screen, the faint reflection of his own face fractured by light. Something was wrong and he could feel it with every inch of his body.

He switched to the palace network and scrolled through the system feeds. Most were routine logistics, guard rotations, and contracts to sign and review, until a single priority alert appeared at the top of the list.

[PRIORITY: MEDICAL — IMPERIAL WING / SUBJECT: CHRISTOPHER MALEK]

He opened it.

Nadia’s report filled the screen, clean and clinical, every line stripped of emotion.

— decreased caloric intake for five consecutive days;

— elevated heart rate and stress markers;

— patch readings showing severe hormonal imbalance;

— worsening sleep cycle;

— episodes of social withdrawal and emotional detachment.

Patient displays signs of acute psychological distress and identity dissociation possibly induced by environmental manipulation. Strongly recommend immediate evaluation.

A live vitals feed pulsed at the bottom with heartbeat, temperature, and blood pressure. The colors bled red and orange, unstable and wrong.

He stared at the data until the numbers blurred. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The anger started rising inside him; that alone could break a man without saying anything.

He scrolled down, searching for more information, but the report ended abruptly. No explanation. No cause. No names.

Only silence.

He closed the phone, fingers leaving faint smudges of soot across the glass. Then he looked toward the horizon, where the night stretched unbroken between the mountains and the capital. "Get the helicopter ready," he said.

Killian, who had been waiting just beyond the steps, straightened immediately. "Sir?"

"We’re leaving."

"Now?"

"Yes. Now."

The words rolled out with quiet force. The air around him shifted and charged, and the torches along the temple walls flickered as though the flame itself could sense the change in pressure.

Killian didn’t hesitate again. "Understood."

Dax descended the steps and crossed the courtyard, boots leaving faint prints in the dust and blood. The air behind him still smelled of smoke and sanctity, but neither reached him anymore.

—

The helicopter waited at the edge of the compound, rotors cutting slow circles through the smoke-stained air. The faint thrum echoed across the empty fields, mechanical and steady, like a heartbeat that refused to stop.

Dax climbed aboard without a word. His uniform smelled of metal and ash, and the heat from the engines carried it back into the air around him. The soldiers stationed nearby didn’t speak. Killian followed a few paces behind, sealing the cabin before taking the seat across from him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The world outside blurred into streaks of orange light as the helicopter lifted, the temple shrinking beneath them until it was just another glimmer on the horizon.

Dax switched on the secure console and pulled up the imperial network. The glow from the monitor washed over his face, cold and colorless. He navigated straight to the surveillance feed from the palace wing, where he kept the encrypted channels for himself.

The screen split into smaller windows until he found the right view: the private suite he shared with Christopher.

The image was grainy but clear enough. The room was dimly lit, curtains half-drawn, and the evening lamps still burning. The sitting area came into focus, the corner near the fireplace where Chris usually read or worked when Dax worked late.

He was there.

Curled in one of the chairs, dressed in pajamas, posture too still. His head rested against the backrest, but his eyes were open, unfocused. The faint movement of his chest confirmed he was breathing, though too shallowly.

Dax leaned closer, his hand resting against his knee to keep from touching the screen. The reflection of the data overlay glinted faintly in his eyes, his heart rate was irregular, and his body temperature was low. The readings matched Nadia’s report.

He switched to the secondary angle, the one facing the bed. The rest of the suite was untouched, perfectly arranged. The servants hadn’t dared to move anything. A tray sat abandoned on the table, the food untouched, the glass of water still full.

Five days and the bitty omega was wasting on a chair.

Killian broke the silence carefully. "Your Majesty."

Dax didn’t look up.

"The item you requested reached the palace earlier today," Killian continued. "The route was logged, from your office to the imperial wing. Final location: the consort’s suite."