Chapter 240: Chapter 240: Menaces

Minerva looked between them for one quiet, satisfied moment.

Otto’s voice then carried across the ballroom, but it was calmer than before.

“Diego.”

Minerva’s smile dimmed.

Dean turned his head.

Diego was standing beside the Emperor again, solemn and angelic, which meant whatever he had done had already progressed beyond apology. In one small hand he held what appeared to be another imperial button. In the other, he held a pastry. Otto, still speaking with the ambassador from Draxil, had one sleeve sitting at a suspicious angle and the expression of a man choosing between fatherhood and state dignity.

Minerva sighed.

Arion glanced over and said, without guilt, “He has excellent timing.”

“He has criminal timing,” Dean corrected.

Minerva handed her glass to a passing attendant with the controlled grace of a woman preparing to retrieve national property from a seven-year-old. “Excuse me. I need to save the Emperor from his child.”

“His child?” Arion repeated mildly, the scarred brow raising.

Minerva looked at him. “Tonight, yes.”

Then she swept away across the ballroom with imperial purpose, already reclaiming control of the situation before Otto could lose either a button or his patience in public.

Dean watched her go. “That child is a state-sponsored menace.”

“He’s the youngest child,” Arion said.

Dean turned back just in time to see Otto extract the button from Diego’s hand with the composed horror of a man trying not to alarm an ambassador. The Emperor said something low; Diego looked up at him with pure innocence and took another bite of pastry as if imperial sabotage were simply part of a balanced upbringing.

Dean sighed. “I cannot decide whether I admire him or fear him.”

“Yes,” Arion said.

“That is not an answer.”

“It is with imperial children.”

The ballroom shifted around them, music and light smoothing back over the interruption. Another round of well-wishers had already begun drifting in their direction, drawn by birthday politics and the dangerous optimism of people who believed princes at receptions existed to be approached indefinitely.

Dean saw them coming first. “You’re being hunted again.”

Arion’s hand settled briefly at his back. “So are you.”

Dean almost smiled. “You’ve become intolerable tonight.”

“You gave me a ring before the party.”

“That excuse is expiring.”

“It isn’t.”

“It is absolutely expiring.”

Arion smiled. “Autumn.”

Dean stopped.

That single word was worse than the ring excuse.

It sat between them, warm and impossible, carrying beast season, survival, wedding discussions, and every political parasite in the room who would start calculating the second they heard even a whisper of it.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Do not use autumn as a weapon.”

“I am using it as motivation.”

“You are using it as emotional blackmail with seasonal decoration.”

“Effective?”

“Unfortunately.”

Arion’s smile deepened, which was exactly when the first congratulatory delegation reached them.

Three nobles bowed in sequence, all silver hair, polished jewels, and hereditary entitlement. Dean recognized none of them, which meant they were either harmless or extremely dangerous. In this palace, both categories smiled the same way.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the eldest said, bowing again. “May the coming year bring strength to the crown and prosperity to Alamina.”

Arion’s expression shifted at once. The warmth folded behind the ceremony, leaving the Crown Prince in its place: elegant, controlled, and lethal in the mildest possible way.

“Thank you, Lord Avel,” he said. “Your family’s northern reconstruction proposal reached my office this morning.”

Lord Avel visibly brightened. “An honor, Your Highness.”

“I noticed your budget doubled between the first and second page.”

The brightness died.

Dean looked at his glass.

He would not laugh.

He would not.

Arion continued pleasantly, “A clerical error, I assume.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Lord Avel said, sweating through generations of noble confidence.

“Correct it before sunrise.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The delegation retreated with the dignity of people fleeing an execution.

Dean looked at Arion. “Birthday greetings?”

“Budget fraud.”

“You are supposed to accept wishes.”

“I accepted them.”

Dean opened his mouth.

A new voice cut in before he could answer.

“Still terrorizing guests at your own birthday, cousin?”

Dean turned.

Nero of Saha came up wearing dark green formal clothes with black and gold trim. His long white-blond hair fell over one shoulder, and his purple eyes were bright with the inherited menace that made it clear he was Dax’s son. At eighteen, he should have looked too young for that much confidence.

Unfortunately, Nero had been raised between Saha’s court and people who loved him enough not to discourage him properly.

Arion looked at him with the calm of a man who had expected this entrance and regretted being right. “Still arriving late enough to be noticed, I see.”

Nero’s mouth curved. “It’s called timing. You should try it when you’re not busy auditing old men in public.”

Dean, who had the immediate misfortune of enjoying this, looked between them. “Do all dominant alphas from ruling families speak like this, or is this just a cousin defect?”

“Yes,” Arion said.

“Absolutely,” Nero agreed.

That got a laugh out of Dean.

Arion felt it in his bones and, because fate had apparently decided subtle punishment was too kind, also remembered with painful clarity that Nero knew exactly how to get that sound out of people. They had fought side by side often enough now, through drills, through real fieldwork, through the ugly rhythm of infected beast seasons, for Arion to know that Nero could be brutally efficient one second and theatrically insufferable the next. It was one of his worst qualities.

And Dean, because the world lacked mercy, was entirely accustomed to it.

Nero looked at Dean, and the edge in his face softened with easy familiarity. “You look expensive. Good. It would have been disrespectful to wear anything less to his birthday.”

Dean’s mouth curved at once. “If you ask why I’m not wearing a collar, I’m going to fight you.”

Nero’s purple eyes dropped, very briefly, to Dean’s bare throat.

Then his smile sharpened. “I was not going to ask.”

“You were.”

“I was going to admire your bold political statement with restraint.”

“It is not a political statement.”

“You are standing beside Alamina’s Crown Prince at his birthday gala without a collar after giving him a ring.” Nero tilted his head. “That is at least three statements of wearing formal clothes.”

Dean stared at him. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

“I was raised by Dax. Court symbolism was taught somewhere between knife work and public menace.”

Arion said, “Your restraint remains theoretical.”

Nero placed one hand over his heart. “That hurt, cousin.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“No,” Nero agreed cheerfully. “But it sounded socially appropriate to claim it did.”

Dean laughed.

Arion’s gaze moved to him at once.

It was not anger. That would have been easier. It was not even suspicion, because Arion knew Nero. He knew the age difference, the family tie, and the fact that Nero had grown up half-feral under Dax’s terrifying affection and was more little menace than rival. Plus Sebastian.

Apparently, knowing did very little against the primitive irritation of watching Dean smile so easily at someone else.

Nero noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He was Dax’s son. Detecting emotional weakness at court had probably been one of his childhood games.

His smile brightened by a dangerous degree. “Ah.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Before any of them could continue bantering, Arion dropped a bomb.

“Did you talk with Sebastian?”

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