The restaurant Arion had chosen was tucked into the city's historic district, all glass, dark wood, and wrought iron softened by amber lamps. It was elegant without being suffocating, expensive without feeling like it was designed to remind everyone inside that the crown had existed for centuries and would continue to exist long after their soup was cold.
For Dean, it was a breath of fresh air.
No marble corridors. No silent palace staff pretending not to hear things. No courtiers lingering at the edge of rooms with smiles sharp enough to cut fruit. Just the low hum of the city beyond the windows, the soft rhythm of conversation around them, and the canal outside catching thin strips of gold from the lamps along the walkway.
He had not realized how badly he needed it until he sat down.
Which was unfortunate, because Arion had absolutely realized.
"You're doing it again," Dean said.
Arion, seated across from him in the curved booth, lifted his gaze from the menu.
