"You already thought of ending it," Arion said.

"Yes."

"Then why are you waiting?"

Thomas looked back at him, soft brown eyes steady now despite the exhaustion in them. "Because if I ended it first, he would have said I discarded him the moment he failed to perform correctly. If I waited, perhaps he would choose honestly."

Arion hummed and leaned back in his chair.

Unfortunately, Andrea was a pampered omega with very polished illusions of being more important than everyone around him, especially the people he considered beneath the value of his own designation.

People like Thomas.

People like Dean.

The thought made something in Arion go cold again.

Andrea had not hated Thomas because Thomas was cruel. Thomas had not demanded, forced, cornered, or humiliated him. If anything, Thomas had done the opposite. He had given Andrea time. Space. Dignity. The chance to refuse without having to make the refusal public.

And Andrea had used that decency as proof that Thomas could be left waiting.

"He won’t choose honestly," Arion said.

Thomas did not flinch.

That was how Arion knew he had already thought the same thing.

"He may," Thomas replied after a moment.

"You don’t believe that."

"No," Thomas admitted quietly. "But I wanted to."

Arion’s fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair. "Want is a terrible legal strategy."

Thomas’s mouth twitched faintly. "That sounds like something Dean would say."

"Dean would add an insult."

"Probably."

The almost-smile faded as quickly as it came.

Thomas looked down at the folder again, though it remained closed now, as if looking at the evidence directly one more time would not change anything he had already felt in his own body.

"He was never cruel in ways I could name," Thomas said. "That was the problem. He did not mock me. He did not refuse me publicly. He did not say he hated Rohan, or me, or the arrangement. He simply made everything colder one degree at a time until I started wondering if warmth had been my own invention."

Arion’s gaze sharpened.

Andrea had chosen the exact type of damage that left no clean wound for anyone to see.

"You should have told me," Arion said.

Thomas looked up. "As your friend?"

"As the commander responsible for the campaign," Arion paused. "And as your friend."

Thomas absorbed that, shoulders lowering by a fraction.

"I know."

"No, you don’t." Arion’s voice hardened slightly. "Because if you did, you would have understood that I would rather deal with Andrea’s wounded pride than receive a report saying Central collapsed because you thought you had to endure being abandoned politely."

Thomas’s pheromones tightened, not dangerously, but enough to show the words had landed.

"I’m not saying this to punish you," Arion continued. "Andrea already did enough of that. I am saying it because you are not allowed to confuse restraint with silence until it turns into self-destruction."

Thomas gave him a tired look. "You sound very married already."

"I am engaged."

"That was not the part I meant."

Arion’s mouth twitched despite himself. "Dean would be worse."

"I believe that."

"He would call you a decorated idiot with excellent shoulders and no survival instinct."

Thomas blinked once.

Then laughed.

It was quiet, brief, and badly worn, but it was real enough to ease a fraction of the tension in the office.

"He would not be wrong," Thomas said.

"No. He rarely is when insulting people."

Thomas leaned back, the chair looking almost too small for him, his large hands resting loosely on his knees. "What did Andrea say after you banned him from the field?"

"He yelled."

"That sounds healthier than usual."

"It was."

Thomas closed his eyes briefly, and for a second Arion could see the old affection there, bruised but not dead. That was the worst of it. Thomas had not stopped caring. He had only stopped believing care could fix what Andrea had turned into a weapon.

"He will hate the ban," Thomas said.

"Yes."

"More than losing me, probably."

Arion did not answer.

Thomas opened his eyes and looked at him. "You agree."

"I think Andrea understands status faster than affection."

"That is an elegant way to say yes."

"I was raised in court."

Thomas’s mouth curved again, faint and dry, but the expression faded before it became anything like amusement. He looked as if he were weighing whether the next words were worth saying or whether silence would once again be mistaken for patience.

Arion noticed the hesitation immediately.

"What?"

Thomas looked at him, soft brown eyes steadier now, though something unpleasant had settled behind them. "Do you remember Caelan’s proposal about Dean that was sent to me?"

Arion’s face hardened at once. "Unfortunately."

The memory was not old enough to dull. Caelan, dead though he was now, had once tried to use Dean as a bargaining piece, as if his grandson’s designation, ability, and future could be measured against military stability and political alliances.

"I’m still working with Palatine and Saha to find out more about their plans," Arion said, his voice cooling. "Why?"

Thomas’s jaw tightened once, then relaxed by force. "Andrea knows about it."

The office went very still.

Arion did not move, but the entire atmosphere around him changed.

Thomas continued before Arion could ask, because if he stopped now, he might lose the nerve to say it cleanly. "He mentioned it at some point. Not as information he should not have had. Casually, but spoken only to hurt me." His mouth curved without humor. "He said that if I had accepted Dean, then he wouldn’t have had to get the scraps."

For a moment, there was no sound at all.

Even the palace beyond the doors seemed distant.

Arion’s expression did not break into visible rage. That would have been easier, and Thomas knew him well enough to understand the danger of the absence.

"Repeat that," Arion said.

Thomas’s eyes remained on him. "He said if I had accepted Dean, he would not have had to get the scraps."

The silence after the second time was worse.

Arion stood.

Slowly.

Not because he needed to. Because something in him had decided remaining seated was no longer useful.

"Who told him?" he asked.

"I don’t know."

"Did he say when he learned it?"

"No."

"Did he say who else knew?"

"No." Thomas’s voice lowered. "And I did not ask."

Arion looked at him.

Thomas did not flinch. "At the time, I thought he was trying to hurt me. To make the arrangement feel like an insult before I could decide whether it was one. I thought he had heard court gossip or some distorted version of the proposal from his family."

"And now?"

"Now," Thomas said, "I think Andrea knew more than gossip should have given him."

Arion’s hand closed around the back of his chair; he was barely restraining himself from crushing it.

"Caelan’s proposal was not public," Arion said. "The formal version was sealed."

Thomas’s mouth tightened. "I know."

Arion’s eyes were cold enough now that Thomas could feel the shape of the prince beneath the friend. "And Andrea spoke of Dean as scraps."

"Yes."

That word did more damage than Andrea’s battlefield omission in a different, far more personal direction.

Scraps.

Dean, who had been treated by his grandfather as currency. Dean, who had survived Palatine’s political attempts to place him where he would be useful. Dean, who had stood on the western flank and held a civilian buffer against infected insects because he refused to let weaker people be swallowed by the consequences of power.

Andrea had called him scraps.

Arion’s mouth curved faintly.

Thomas had seen that expression before on training fields, usually a few seconds before someone learned that Arion did not need to raise his voice to make violence educational.

"Arion," Thomas said carefully.