The first week of the Month of Grace had proven to be a test of Dean's newly acquired patience.
Arion had been summoned away for a diplomatic fracture on the northern border: four nights of an empty bed and a palace that felt far too large when it was not occupied by a man with gold eyes and a talent for ruined omegas. Dean had spent the first two nights being productive, the third being restless, and the fourth being frankly annoyed.
By the fifth morning, Dean decided that if Arion was going to be busy with the crown, then Dean would be busy with the birthday.
"He's late," Dean said, tapping his fingers against the low table in the private sunroom.
"He's a legend, Dean. Legends don't follow a timeline; they simply appear when the lighting is right," Sylvia said without looking up from her tablet. She was reclining on a chaise longue, her feet resting on the broad, furry back of Boreas. The massive dog let out a content huff, his tail thumping once against the rug.
