Dean did not like waiting.

He especially did not like waiting while Arion was somewhere else, committing legally sanctioned terror in a secure wing of the palace while Dean sat in a private receiving lounge with his father, his aunt, a glass of wine he was not drinking, and a dog who had appointed himself emotional infrastructure.

Boreas had not moved from Dean’s legs.

That was probably for the best. If the dog moved, Dean might also move, and if Dean moved, there was a non-zero chance he would end up in a corridor making someone from House Vale regret developing speech.

Lucas knew that.

Mia knew that.

Dean hated that both of them knew that.

He stared at the closed door through which Arion had left and tried very hard not to imagine the shape of Andrea Vale’s face when Arion entered the room.

He failed.

Then he tried very hard not to enjoy the image.

He also failed.

Mia watched him over the rim of her wine glass. "You are making the face."

Dean did not look at her. "I have many faces."

"Yes. This is the one that says you are imagining violence and pretending it is strategy."

Lucas sat in the chair beside him, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, coffee in hand, looking like a man who had been born to survive scandal and raise difficult children through sheer force of calm menace. "It often is strategy."

Mia turned toward him. "Do not enable him."

"I raised him."

"That is not a defense."

"It is context."

Dean closed his eyes. "Can both of you stop discussing me like I am a policy failure?"

Mia’s mouth curved. "Would you prefer we discuss you like a wedding problem?"

Dean opened his eyes immediately. "No."

"There," Mia said. "He is responding to treatment."

Lucas looked at her. "We need to raise his mood."

Dean turned slowly toward his father. "I am in the room."

"Yes," Lucas said. "That is why I said it aloud."

"That is not how concern works."

"It is in this family."

Mia lifted her glass. "He’s right."

Dean stared at them both.

The terrible part was that Lucas sounded entirely serious. Not light, not playful the way Mia was playful, but deliberately calm, as if he had made a tactical assessment and decided Dean couldn’t afford to spend the next hour staring at the door and thinking about Arion dismantling people. Which was unfair, because Dean thought picturing Arion tearing people apart was a pretty good use of emotional energy under the circumstances.

Before he could say that, the lounge door opened.

Minerva entered with two aides behind her, a tablet in one hand and an expression that suggested she had received three scandal alerts, two security summaries, and one wedding schedule before breakfast and found all of them equally insulting.

She wore deep green today, a tailored suit with gold accents so precise that Dean briefly forgot to be stressed because the fabric had structure, intention, and the kind of expensive restraint that made politics look wearable.

Behind her, one aide carried a long black case.

The other carried what looked suspiciously like fabric samples.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

"No," he said.

Minerva paused at the threshold. "Good morning to you as well."

"No."

"I have not said anything."

"You brought samples."

Mia leaned forward at once. "You brought samples?"

Minerva’s gaze flicked to the wine glass in Mia’s hand. "Before noon?"

Mia raised a finger. "Chris is my brother."

Minerva considered that for half a second.

Then nodded. "Acceptable."

Dean stared at her. "Do not validate her."

"It was a strong argument."

"It was an excuse."

"Those are often related," Minerva said, and walked fully into the room.

Lucas rose smoothly to greet her. "Minerva."

"Lucas." Her expression softened by a degree, which in Minerva’s case probably counted as open emotional collapse. "I am sorry your arrival had to begin like this."

Lucas’s mouth curved faintly. "Our family has rarely arrived anywhere peacefully."

Mia lifted her glass. "We once arrived at a baptism and left with two political alliances, one broken engagement, and Chris banned from the choir balcony."

Dean blinked. "I never heard that story."

"You were too young."

"Chris was too old."

"Also true."

Minerva’s mouth twitched, and then her eyes moved to Dean.

That ruined things.

Not because her expression became pitying. It did not. Minerva had too much discipline and too much respect for his pride to look at him like something bruised. But her gaze sharpened slightly, assessing what he had endured, what he was holding back, and how much room she could push into before he reacted badly.

Then she looked at Lucas. "You asked me to help with his mood?"

Dean’s head snapped toward his father. "You summoned imperial reinforcements?"

Lucas sat again, unbothered. "Yes."

"That is betrayal."

"It is parenting."

"You cannot keep using that word like a diplomatic immunity badge."

Lucas took a sip of coffee. "It has worked well so far."

Mia laughed softly.

Dean pointed at her. "You are supposed to be on my side."

"I am. That is why I support distraction."

"I do not need distraction."

Boreas chose that moment to place one massive paw on Dean’s foot.

Dean looked down at him. "Not you too."

The dog wagged his tail once.

Minerva handed her tablet to the aide beside her and sat across from Dean with the serene authority of a woman who had organized national ceremonies, military receptions, state funerals, and probably at least one quiet social execution through seating charts alone.

"Very well," she said. "Let us discuss colors."

Dean stared at her. "You think colors will improve my mood?"

"No. I think arguing about colors will."

Mia set her wine down. "Oh, she understands him."

Lucas looked almost pleased. "I told you."

Dean leaned back. "I am leaving."

"You cannot," Mia said. "Boreas is on your foot."

"Boreas can be moved."

Boreas looked up at him with enormous, trusting eyes. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Dean sighed through his nose. "Fine. But under protest."

"Everything you do is under protest," Lucas said.

"That is my brand."

Mia smiled. "Branding is important."

Dean glared at her. "Do not bring back your wine logic."

Minerva ignored all of them with admirable competence and tapped the tablet. The wall screen came alive, not with treason, not with proposals, not with Caelan’s dead hand or House Vale’s impending public ruin, but with a wedding palette.

Gold. Black. Deep green. Ivory. A muted red so dark it almost looked like wine.

Dean’s expression changed before he could stop it.

Mia saw.

Lucas saw.

Minerva absolutely saw.

Dean hated all of them.

"That green is good," he said grudgingly.

Minerva’s eyes warmed. "It is Alamina’s imperial green, adjusted two shades darker so it does not fight Palatine ivory."

Dean frowned despite himself. "Palatine ivory is too cold against black."

"Exactly."

"It would work better if the ivory were used in the floral structures and not in the clothing."

Minerva tapped something. The arrangement shifted on the screen.

Dean leaned forward by accident.

Mia hid her smile behind her glass.

Lucas looked down at his coffee with the expression of a man pretending not to enjoy success.

Dean pointed at the screen. "No. If the ivory is there, the gold looks cheap."

Minerva’s brows lifted. "Go on."

"That gold is too yellow. It makes the black look theatrical. Arion does not need theatrical."

Mia made a small sound.

Dean looked at her sharply. "What?"

"You said Arion does not need theatrical like a man discussing national defense."

"He doesn’t. He already looks like a formal threat in black."

Minerva nodded. "That is also why the first ceremonial suit has a minimal gold line at the shoulder and cuffs only."

Dean paused.

Then slowly narrowed his eyes. "First?"

Minerva said nothing.

Mia leaned closer. "How many suits?"

The aide holding the black case shifted with the careful anxiety of someone who had been waiting for this exact question and feared the answer might cause injury.

Minerva said, "For Arion?"

Dean sat up.

Lucas looked at him with open amusement now.

Dean ignored him. "Yes. For Arion."

"Six primary fittings," Minerva said. "Three ceremonial, two reception, one private portrait set. Possibly a seventh if Lucas insists on Palatine formal inclusion."

Lucas said, "I do."

Minerva nodded as if she had expected no less. "Then seven."

Dean stared at the screen.

Seven suits.

Arion in seven formal suits.

Arion standing through fittings while tailors adjusted black fabric across his shoulders, gold thread at his cuffs, maybe a formal military-inspired collar for the first ceremony, with Palatine ivory incorporated somewhere subtle enough not to look like surrender.

Dean’s mouth went dry for an entirely different reason.

Mia made another sound.

Dean turned to her. "Do not."

"I said nothing."

"You thought something."

"I think constantly. It is one of my gifts."

Lucas’s eyes were bright with restrained laughter. "Dean?"

"No."

"Would you like to review Arion’s ceremonial options?"

Dean looked betrayed by how much he wanted to say yes.

Minerva, ruthless creature that she was, gestured for the aide to open the black case.

Fabric swatches appeared. Black wool-silk blend. Matte ceremonial velvet. Green brocade with a barely visible imperial motif. Gold embroidery samples. Palatine ivory lining. A deep wine-red accent that made Mia inhale with interest.

Dean leaned forward again.

This time he did not pretend otherwise.

"That red," he said. "Not for Arion."

Mia’s brows rose. "For you?"

Dean stared at the swatch. "Maybe."

Lucas’s expression softened.

That was dangerous, so Dean immediately added, "Not too much. I am not arriving dressed like a blood threat."

Mia murmured, "But conceptually?"

"Conceptually, I remain threatening."