Arion stood by the weapons table, fastening the guard over his forearm with the same steady hand he used to accept birthday congratulations and discover budget fraud in noble petitions. His dark hair was already combed back, the scar cutting across his brow and cheek more visible without the softness of formal lighting. He looked less like the prince from last night and more like the thing underneath him.
Danger, dressed practically.
Dean looked away before that thought could become romantic.
Unfortunately, Arion noticed.
"You're staring."
"I'm assessing whether the armor makes you more tolerable."
"And?"
"No."
Arion's mouth curved. "Tragic."
"Deeply."
A tablet glowed on the table between them, the western flank marked in hard blue lines and warning red. Their assignment sat closest to the civilian buffer, where evacuated districts pressed against the restricted infected zone and the pheromone wall already in place shimmered through the map as a thin, active barrier.
