Chapter 58: Chapter 58: Basic knowledge

Arion’s gaze stayed on him, steady and intent, and then, unexpectedly, his eyes softened and he let out a warm laugh.

It was unfair how good that laugh was. Low and real, like it had been hiding behind discipline for years. It went straight through Dean’s defenses and made him feel, for one humiliating second, like melting was a reasonable response.

“I’m the best at scowling out of my siblings,” Arion said, the amusement still clinging to his voice.

Dean blinked, then recovered enough to huff. “You have ten,” he said. “That’s an achievement. Also, should I be prepared for a sibling war.”

Arion’s mouth twitched, still amused. “No, not really.”

Dean lifted a brow.

“My older sisters are married and away from the capital,” Arion continued, tone settling back into calm. “The rest are underage. And none of them is particularly interested in taking the throne from me.”

Dean tilted his head slowly. “Mhmm.”

Arion’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Dean asked innocently.

“Do that thing where you pretend you’re agreeing while your brain is very clearly writing a list of reasons I’m lying,” Arion said, flat enough that it should’ve been a reprimand.

Dean’s mouth kicked up at one corner. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… processing. You’re telling me you have ten siblings and absolutely no one is angling for power.”

Arion exhaled, a quiet sound through his nose, then leaned back into the seat as the plane’s engine-noise filled the gap like a third party with no interest in diplomacy. The cabin lights were dimmed; the world outside the window was black and endless, broken only by the occasional blink of the wing lights.

“It’s not Palatine,” Arion said at last.

Dean’s gaze flicked to him. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

Arion didn’t rise to it. He rarely did when he didn’t feel like feeding someone the satisfaction. “Alamina doesn’t run on concentration,” he said instead. “Power isn’t meant to pool into one man until it becomes… a religion.”

Dean’s brow lifted. “You’re being diplomatic about Caelan.”

“I’m being accurate,” Arion corrected, voice calm, matter-of-fact in a way that felt almost cultural. “Palatine rewarded a ruler who could dominate the room and then the country. Alamina rewards a ruler who can be questioned without it turning into bloodshed.”

Dean shifted in his seat, the belt snug across his waist. Eight hours was a long time to sit next to Arion and pretend his presence didn’t adjust the air pressure in Dean’s lungs.

“So what’s the model?” he asked.

Arion’s gaze stayed on him, steady. “Shared pressure,” he said. “The imperial family has seats in Parliament.”

Dean blinked. “Seats as in… ceremonial?”

Arion’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes made it clear Dean had said something mildly stupid. “Seats as in voting,” he replied.

Dean let out a slow breath. “You’re telling me royals vote on policy.”

“Yes.”

“And they can vote against the throne.”

“They can vote against the Crown,” Arion corrected, and then added, almost dry, “which is useful, because I am not the throne.”

Dean’s head tipped slightly. “But even if Otto is the Emperor now, you’ll be Emperor eventually.” His eyes narrowed in that careful way that meant he was trying not to sound insulting and was failing on principle. “Doesn’t your stepmother have anything to say? Doesn’t she want her sons to take the throne?”

Arion didn’t bristle. He didn’t even look offended. He just looked… mildly tired, like Dean had asked if water was wet.

“No,” he said.

Dean blinked. “Just… no?”

“The governance is more complicated than that,” Arion replied, and the words landed with the same matter-of-fact weight as a legal clause. “The throne is a chore. Not necessarily more power.”

Dean leaned back slightly, still watching him. “That’s not how thrones work.”

“That’s how ours works,” Arion said, unbothered. “In Palatine, the throne concentrates authority. In Alamina, the throne carries responsibility that is distributed, monitored, and, when necessary, stopped.”

Dean’s brows drew together. “Stopped by your family.”

“By Parliament,” Arion corrected again, because apparently correcting Dean was his favorite in-flight activity. “The imperial members sit there, yes, but they sit there as part of a larger body. Votes are votes. A title doesn’t make you immune to being outnumbered.”

Dean’s gaze flicked away for a second, to the rest of cabin, to the dim lights before it flickered back to Arion. “So your stepmother… just accepts that her sons won’t inherit,” he said carefully.

Arion’s mouth twitched, almost amused. “You keep framing it like inheritance is a prize.”

Dean’s lips flattened. “It usually is.”

“In Alamina it’s an assignment,” Arion said. “A public one. The kind that makes your mistakes a matter of record and your decisions a matter of vote. My stepmother understands that better than anyone.”

Dean studied him. “Because she’s… actually decent?”

Arion’s gaze stayed steady. “Because she’s Alaminian.”

That was the most brutal compliment Dean had ever heard delivered so calmly.

Dean’s fingers tapped once on his armrest, a restless motion. “But her sons don’t want it either?”

“They’re children,” Arion replied. “They want to be allowed to breathe without people writing their names into political fantasies.” He paused, then added, tone still even, “And if they ever did want it, it wouldn’t be decided by desire. It would be decided by process.”

Dean’s brow lifted. “Process.”

“Competence,” Arion clarified. “Preparation. Consensus. The stability of the country. Not who throws the most convincing tantrum in silk.”

Dean let out a quiet laugh. “So there’s no court drama.”

Arion’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “There is drama. We’re not saints.”

Dean’s mouth tugged. “But not that big of a deal.”

“Because we had monsters,” Arion said simply, like that explained everything it needed to. “Pheromone-affected ones. The kind you don’t negotiate with. When your childhood includes ’if you miscalculate, someone dies,’ you don’t have the patience to turn succession into a soap opera.”

Dean’s gaze softened despite himself. “So your stepmother doesn’t scheme because she’s busy… being functional.”

Arion’s mouth curved faintly. “She cares about the empire. She cares about my father. She cares about her children. Those things don’t require her to hate me.”

Dean held his gaze for a long second, and then, reluctantly, he admitted, “That’s… healthier than I expected.”

Arion’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes warmed just enough to make Dean feel like he’d been given a point for behaving. “Alamina isn’t romantic,” he said. “It’s practical.”

Dean exhaled slowly, staring at the dark window again. “So when you say the throne is a chore…”

Arion’s voice stayed calm, but it sharpened around the edges, like he was outlining the shape of a blade. “I mean the Emperor works. Constantly. He answers to Parliament, to the public record, to the imperial members who can demand explanations, and to the realities outside the capital that don’t care about titles. He can’t ’dominate’ the country into obedience. He has to keep it alive.”

Dean’s throat moved. “And you’re next… Then what your partner has to do?”

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