Caught by the Mad Alpha King-Chapter 473: The stage

Months later, the event existed.

That, in Zion’s opinion, was the first sign that too many dangerous adults had once sat in one room, looked at a bad idea, and instead of killing it properly, had turned it into an international summit with branding, media partners, security coordination, and a title respectable enough to survive public scrutiny.

The official name was the Summit of Heirs and Allied Leadership.

The real name, in several private households across three governments, was Dax’s revenge.

No one said that out loud in front of staff, but everyone knew how petty Dax could be.

By the time the first motorcades swept through the secured eastern gates of the royal state complex in Saha, the summit had already acquired the polished, overfunded importance of an event built to signal continuity, prestige, and cooperation while actually functioning as an exquisitely tailored act of political aggression.

There were panel sessions.

There were closed-door strategic briefings, joint appearances before the press, military technology demonstrations, youth leadership roundtables, cultural receptions, a televised welcome dinner, and an entire schedule dense enough to ensure that no important person could leave without being seen leaving.

It was, in short, a diplomatic hostage situation with designer lighting.

And Caelan had come.

That, more than the press barricades, the satellite vans outside the perimeter, or the black cars lined in perfect order beneath the flags, was the true victory.

Sirius and Ethan had real reasons not to attend. Real enough that no one could challenge them without looking indecent. Ethan had family and medical obligations that could not be delegated, and Sirius, as his husband and the current emperor, had remained with him exactly as duty required.

No one disputed it.

Everyone understood it.

The invitation had dropped straight into Caelan’s hands.

And Caelan, because pride had always been more reliable than diplomacy when properly provoked, had accepted personally rather than let Dax believe for even a second that he could be maneuvered out of public view.

Which was why he now stepped out of an armored state vehicle beneath the glass canopy of Saha’s eastern reception wing like a man arriving at a beautifully organized insult.

Zion got out beside him.

He had known this would be bad.

He had not anticipated how professionally bad it would be.

The reception area was all glass, black stone, steel lines, and controlled luxury. The entrance plaza had been landscaped within an inch of its life, with shallow reflecting pools, clipped greenery, and the flags of participating states moving in the wind above a wall of cameras positioned just far enough back to suggest courtesy rather than intrusion.

Security officers stood at measured intervals, visible and invisible at once. Earpieces, dark suits, and lapel pins. Wrist comms. The kind of security presence that said ’modern monarchy’ without ever letting the word ’fear’ appear in the architecture.

At the top of the broad entry steps stood Dax and Chris.

Together. Naturally.

Dax was in a black tailored suit with gold detailing at the lapel and cuffs, looking like the human embodiment of expensive trouble. Beside him, Chris wore dark bronze and ivory in an omega robe cut so precise it made half the diplomatic corps look underdressed, on principle. He was composed, elegant, and calm in the specific way of someone who had approved the final version of this event while reserving the right to disapprove of its architect forever.

Zion did not miss the way Caelan’s mouth hardened by a fraction.

Dax saw it too.

"Your Majesty," Dax said, descending the steps with warm, camera-perfect ease. "We’re honored you could make it."

Caelan smiled the way people smiled when they intended to survive a room rather than enjoy it. "The invitation was difficult to ignore."

Dax’s smile deepened. "That was the intention."

To Zion’s left, one of Caelan’s senior advisors stopped breathing for a second.

Chris stepped in before the line could develop teeth in front of microphones. "Welcome to Saha. We hope the trip was smooth."

He meant it more sincerely than Dax did, which was both the comfort and the problem with Chris. He could host someone he disliked with absolute grace and still somehow make it clear that his husband remained on a short leash only by personal sacrifice.

"It was fine," Caelan said.

For Caelan, that counted as generosity.

Chris accepted the answer with a small nod, then turned to Zion with polite neutrality. Crown Prince, Nero, and the others are already inside. The first briefing starts in fifteen."

Zion inclined his head once. "Thank you."

Chris’s gaze rested on him for a beat longer than strict protocol required, not enough to be noticed by most people, but enough for Zion to understand the message anyway.

’Good luck.’ Or perhaps, ’I’m sorry.’

With Chris, the two often wore the same face.

Dax, meanwhile, was still looking at Caelan with the bright, polished ease of a man who had built this entire nightmare with his own hands and now intended to enjoy every second of its successful launch.

"Shall we?" he said.

Caelan did not answer immediately.

It was only a pause. A short one. Barely long enough to register as hesitation to anyone who had not spent years studying him for survival, advantage, or affection. But Zion knew his resented grandfather. So did the men who had served under Caelan long enough to understand that his silence was calculation. The visible act of taking whatever instinct rose first and locking it behind his teeth before the world could see it.

Then Caelan smiled again.

"Of course," he said.

The doors opened in front of them.

Inside, the eastern reception wing had been transformed into something between a summit venue and a demonstration of wealth tasteful enough to pass for policy. The floors were dark polished stone broken by strips of warm light inset along the walkway. Glass partitions carved the vast hall into reception zones, media lanes, and security transitions without ever making the architecture feel divided. Large vertical screens displayed the summit crest in muted motion, along with phrases like ’continuity,’ ’stability,’ ’cooperation,’ and ’future,’ all chosen by committees and all somehow reading like Dax had personally signed off on each one while laughing.

The press wall stood to the left of the main corridor, already alive with discreet movement as official photographers adjusted angles and staff coordinated sequence lists through earpieces. Beyond it, visible through another glass section, Zion could see diplomats, ministers, private secretaries, and military attachés drifting in curated clusters, each group performing its own version of ease.

It was a modern royal event, which meant nothing had been left to chance and everything was designed to look as if chance had simply been unusually kind.

Caelan saw all of it.

Zion saw his grandfather’s eyes move across the hall once. He saw the screens, the camera lanes, the angle of the press barricade, the flow of people sitting near the first chamber doors, the exact location of the staff, and the planned openness of the path that would take them inside. Taking inventory with the ruthless speed of a man who had ruled too long not to recognize when he had been professionally cornered.

His jaw tightened once.

Dax noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Dax was watching Caelan like a very patient predator, taking advantage of every chance he got.

"The media call is brief," Dax said lightly as they began walking. "Only the opening visuals. No questions until tomorrow."

’How kind,’ Zion thought.

Caelan’s voice remained even. "You’re very considerate."

"Chris insists."

Chris, without looking at either of them, said, "Someone has to."

That almost pulled a smile out of Zion.