"I was asking you to bring him."
Dean stared at her.
Somewhere behind them, quiet footsteps softened against the polished floor, lost beneath music and court conversation. Neither Dean nor Minerva noticed. They were too focused on each other: Dean with the grim suspicion of a man cornered by imperial motherhood, and Minerva with the serene satisfaction of a woman who had just placed her argument exactly where she wanted it.
"Bring him," Dean repeated.
"Yes."
"As if he is a difficult dog."
"As if he is a difficult crown prince," Minerva said. "The distinction is mostly legal."
Dean's mouth opened.
Nothing useful came out.
Behind them, the footsteps stopped.
Arion stood just beyond Dean's shoulder, silent, one hand loosely at his side, the dark ring catching a thin blade of chandelier light. He had approached without announcing himself, drawn by the sight of Dean looking increasingly betrayed and Minerva looking increasingly victorious.
For a moment, he said nothing.
