There was a rustle on the other end, fabric shifting, and a faint huff that was almost certainly Boreas, and then Dean's voice came back clearer, closer, as if he had stood and moved away from whoever else was in the room.
"That depends," Dean said.
"On what?"
"On whether you are asking because you miss me," Dean replied, his voice smoothing into something softer and more dangerous, "or because being ordered around by ministers for four days has damaged your manners."
Arion looked down at the dark reflection in the window beside him. His own face looked sharper there, older in the wrong places, the northern light still caught in the angles of it.
"Both," he said.
Dean let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if he had been in a kinder mood. "That, unfortunately, is believable."
"I'm serious."
"No, you are Arion. Not Mister Serious."
Despite himself, Arion smiled.
