By the time Dean remembered that birthdays in the imperial palace were not private emotional ambushes wrapped in velvet and brushed metal, it was too late.
They had already made their entrance.
The doors had opened to the grand eastern hall in a spill of light, music, and every noble eye in Alamina turning at once. Arion had stepped in beside him with the quiet, effortless weight of a man born to be looked at, his formal black coat cut with silver embroidery and imperial blue lining, his hair swept back, his expression composed.
For approximately three seconds.
Then the light had caught on the new ring on his hand.
Dean had watched, in real time, as the future emperor of Alamina lost a deeply respectable portion of his dignity.
Not openly, of course.
