Chapter 239: Chapter 239: Autumn

“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.

Dean, unaware that the difficult crown prince in question had arrived, exhaled through his nose and muttered, “He has legs.”

Minerva lifted her glass. “Very impressive ones, if the court whispers are to be believed.”

Dean choked.

Arion’s brows rose.

Dean pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You are his mother.”

“I am his stepmother. The moral burden is lighter.”

“That is not how family works.”

“In this family, morality is situational.”

Behind him, Arion grinned.

Dean continued, still oblivious and now visibly suffering. “He is perfectly capable of visiting the main palace on his own.”

“Yes,” Minerva agreed. “And yet he doesn’t.”

Arion finally decided that if he continued listening, he would either laugh aloud or be legally adopted into a new level of maternal harassment.

“If you want to see us,” he said from behind them, “you can visit too.”

Dean froze, his purple eyes widening.

Minerva did not move at first.

Then, very slowly, she turned her head.

Dean turned a fraction later, already wearing the expression of a man who had just realized the executioner had been standing politely behind him for the last several minutes.

Arion stood there in full formal splendor, golden-eyed, ringed, and far too pleased with himself.

Dean stared at him.

“How long have you been there?”

Arion’s gaze flicked toward Minerva. “Long enough to learn the distinction between a difficult dog and a difficult crown prince is mostly legal.”

Dean closed his eyes.

Minerva’s smile bloomed.

“Oh, good,” she said. “You heard the important part.”

Arion looked at her. “I heard several concerning parts.”

“You arrived late. That is your fault.”

Dean opened his eyes and pointed at him with quiet accusation. “You sneak.”

“I walk silently.”

“You appeared behind us like a political haunting.”

“It is my birthday. I am allowed one haunting.”

Arion reached for Dean’s waist and drew him closer to the line of his body, completely unashamed of whatever other people would say.

“Minerva,” Arion said, his tone smooth, “wants a date for our marriage.”

Minerva lifted her glass. “I want planning. Dates are simply the most civilized way to begin extorting it.”

Arion’s hand remained warm at Dean’s waist. “And I promised to wait for you to be ready.”

That shut off half of Dean’s available sarcasm at once.

He looked up at Arion.

The ballroom still existed. Music, crystal, nobles, light, polished floor, all of it remained exactly where it had been. Yet the moment contracted anyway, narrowing into the quiet, dangerous honesty of the sentence.

I promised to wait.

Minerva, naturally, noticed all of it and enjoyed herself immensely.

“See?” she said. “This is why I was asking you to bring him. He sounds much more reasonable when he’s standing next to you.”

Dean recovered just enough to glare at her. “That is not flattering.”

“It is not meant to be flattering. It is meant to be useful.”

Arion’s mouth curved. “You were interrogating him.”

“I was gathering information,” Minerva corrected. “One cannot govern an empire on ambiguity and hopeful glances.”

Dean muttered, “You govern it on terrifying certainty and strategic jewelry.”

Minerva smiled serenely. “Exactly.”

Arion looked down at Dean. “And?”

Dean blinked. “And what?”

“And are you ready?”

Dean stared at him.

For one horrifying second, every prepared answer vanished.

Dean swallowed.

Minerva, mercifully or maliciously, took a sip of wine and said nothing.

“I am,” Dean said carefully, “ready to continue being engaged.”

Arion’s eyes warmed. “A devastating declaration.”

“It is generous under pressure.”

“You are always under pressure.”

“Yes, because your family keeps applying it.”

Minerva smiled. “With love.”

“With military efficiency,” Dean corrected.

Arion’s thumb moved once at Dean’s waist. “No date, then.”

Dean looked at him sharply.

There was no disappointment in Arion’s face. Only that steady patience Dean found more dangerous than any demand.

He had thought of it after their last disagreement. Arion had agreed to let Dean decide, and Dean was painfully aware of what parliament demanded, what the court wanted, what every titled parasite in the room would prefer if given enough wine and audacity.

But Dean had thought of that.

And the last weeks had taught him something else.

People would try stupid things like Andrea. They would test boundaries, invent leverage, mistake patience for access, and treat any gap in formal structure as an invitation to crawl through it.

Dean was running out of patience for that.

“Well,” he said, more quietly now, “the best would be after the beast season.”

Arion went still.

Dean kept his gaze on him and continued before either his courage or Minerva’s lurking influence could interfere.

“The season is ugly enough without adding a wedding announcement to it. In two weeks both of us will be in the field, and I don’t want that to take focus from something important.” He lifted one hand at once, already anticipating interruption. “I did not say the wedding isn’t important. I said I would prefer to discuss flowers and where to exile Dax in the guest seating after we finish fighting beasts ready to infect anything with a pulse.”

That pulled the faintest twitch from Arion’s mouth.

Minerva, listening from a politically inappropriate distance, laughed into her glass.

Dean exhaled. “And after the season, people will be too tired to make our marriage into a circus. Or at least too tired to do it elegantly.”

Arion looked at him for one long second, his smile becoming warmer with each second passing.

“Autumn,” Arion said.

Dean nodded once. “Autumn.”

Minerva turned then, all serene imperial satisfaction. “Good. I’ll let parliament panic seasonally.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You heard that.”

“I’m an empress. Hearing things before they’re said is part of the job.”

Arion’s hand settled warmly at Dean’s waist. “Autumn,” he repeated, softer now.

The word landed heavily and perfectly.

Dean looked at him, at the ring on his hand, at the brightness still caught beneath all that princely composure, and let himself smile.

“Yes,” he said. “Autumn.”

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