Chapter 64: Chapter 64: Arrival (1)

The arrival in Alamina was less spectacular – less theatrical – than Dean had expected.

The imperial convoy was there, of course. The press, too, clustered behind barriers with their lenses pointed like hungry eyes. But there wasn’t the Palatine kind of performative chaos; no screaming crowd pushed close enough to breathe on you for ’tradition.’

There was simply… order. A literal wall of uniformed security surrounded the perimeter, making it clear that Dean’s discomfort would be treated as a legitimate issue rather than a cost of admission.

Dean stepped down the jet’s stairs, and the cold air hit his lungs cleanly.

He realized he’d barely slept during the last hours of the flight. His mind had run in tight circles around one thought until it turned into something sick.

’My grandfather tried to sell me.’

The disgusting part wasn’t even the politics. It was the intimacy of it. The betrayal built into the bloodline. This wasn’t a stranger trying to use him. It was someone who had held him on his knee when he was little, who had smiled at him like he was special.

Dean had always known he was one of Caelan’s favorites. He’d assumed it was superficial, simple – because he looked the most like Lucas. The same frame. The same blonde hair. The same face that made older nobles sentimental and dangerous.

But the night had brought him a different thought, colder and sharper.

’What if Caelan knew?’

What if he’d known Dean was a dominant omega from the beginning and that Sebastian was a dominant alpha?

Lucas and Trevor had refused to test them before manifestation, because that was the boundary they held like law. But Caelan didn’t need consent. Caelan needed opportunity. And how hard would it have been for his people to take a vial of blood during one of those routine checkups, file it under ’protocol,’ and bring it to him like a gift?

Dean’s stomach turned as he walked, his expression controlled purely out of habit.

Beside him, Arion didn’t speak. He didn’t pry. He didn’t demand Dean’s attention to himself.

He simply let his pheromones out, turning the space around Dean into an insulated pocket of calm without Dean even realizing he was being calmed. The edge of panic dulled. The racing thoughts softened into something that could be carried without cutting.

They were guided toward the car at the front of the convoy. Alaminian vehicles were less flashy than Palatine ones, with darker, cleaner lines, built for function rather than spectacle. The door was opened before Dean could reach for it.

Once inside, the world became muted. The glass looked thick. The hum of the outside faded. The engine came alive under them like a restrained animal.

Arion adjusted his cuff, already slipping into work mode the way some people slipped into a coat. “Otto and Minerva are waiting for us,” he said.

Dean looked at him. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Arion replied. “We exchange greetings. Then you’re free from responsibilities until the gala.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “The one next week?”

“Mhm.” Arion’s gaze stayed forward. “Use the time to rest.”

Dean hesitated. He hated how small his next question felt, how it betrayed what he needed.

“Will I see you?” Dean asked anyway, because he didn’t know what else to ask, and because the answer mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Arion turned his head. The smile he gave Dean was warm in a way that made Dean’s chest tighten – like Arion had kept that expression somewhere private and only took it out when he chose.

“You can call anytime,” Arion said. “I will make time, even if it’s only ten minutes.”

Dean tried to scoff. It came out weaker than usual. “How romantic. A ten-minute appointment.”

Arion’s smile didn’t fade. “Ten minutes is still mine,” he said calmly, and the possessiveness was there, wrapped in something almost gentle.

Dean looked away before his face gave him away.

The car rolled forward. The convoy moved as one. The security detail kept the press distant, contained, and Dean realized that no one was trying to touch him. No one was shoving microphones into his face. No one was calling his name like he owed them a performance.

It felt… unfamiliar.

It felt like being treated like a person.

The road curved through a stretch of manicured grounds that looked almost too pristine to be real. Winter had bitten down hard – trees bare and elegant, their branches frosted like glasswork, the lawns flattened under a clean blanket of white. The convoy moved smoothly, tires whispering over the cleared path, and Dean found himself watching the landscape the way you watch a painting: half impressed, half suspicious that something was about to jump out and demand his signature.

He expected Alamina to be restrained. Functional. Militarily sensible.

Arion had talked about monsters and Parliament and practicality like those were the pillars of the entire country. Dean had pictured stone walls, dark wood, and minimal gold. Something that looked like it could survive a siege without crying about it.

And then the palace came into view.

Dean’s breath caught.

It rose from the winter like a declaration – immense, ornate, pale against the snow, with towering columns and sweeping facades that looked carved for the sole purpose of making people feel small. The roofline stretched like a crown laid across the horizon. Windows glittered in rows, reflecting the weak daylight in a way that made the building look alive. Statues stood on terraces like silent witnesses. The gates were iron, grand and far too beautiful to be called practical.

It looked like it belonged in a history book that took joy in ruined empires.

It looked like it promised drama.

Dean slowly turned his head toward Arion, the disbelief on his face so unfiltered it bordered on insult.

Arion didn’t look at him. He was already checking something on his phone, calm as ever, as if they were approaching a perfectly normal building and not… whatever this was.

Dean lifted a hand and pointed at the palace through the window like he was accusing it of existing.

“You have to be kidding me,” he said.

Arion’s eyes flicked up. “What?”

Dean stared at him harder. “This,” he said, as if Arion could possibly misunderstand. “This is not ’practical.’ This is a glittering invitation to court scandals and assassination attempts and some lady fainting into a duke’s arms because someone wore the wrong shade of blue.”

Arion smiled. “It’s a building.”

Dean made a sound of disbelief. “That is not a building. That is… that is the physical embodiment of a gossip column.”

Arion’s gaze slid to the window, then back to Dean, expression unbothered. “It’s old.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old?”

“Yes,” Arion said, like it explained everything. “It predates modern governance and the current Parliament structure. It survived monsters, wars, and several emperors with questionable taste.”

Dean leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowing as if the palace might suddenly reveal a trapdoor. “This thing has wings,” he muttered. “It has… it has vanity.”

Arion’s brow lifted, faintly amused. “It has fortifications.”

Dean whipped his head back toward him. “Where?”

Arion nodded slightly toward the base of the palace. “Under the ornament,” he said calmly. “Everything you think is decoration is also designed to be difficult to breach. Wide sightlines. Elevated terraces. Reinforced supports. Old architecture learned to hide teeth.”

Dean stared at him. “That is the most Alaminian sentence you’ve ever said.”

Arion’s smile widened. “You’re welcome.”

The convoy passed through the gates, and the scale of the place became worse up close. The entry court was enormous, the kind of space that could swallow an entire Palatine gala and still have room left for people to pretend they weren’t staring. Soldiers lined the path in clean formation like a warning: don’t try anything.

Dean felt the press disappear behind the barrier of security as the convoy rolled deeper into the grounds. The noise dropped. The world narrowed to the crunch of tires on cleared stone and the faint hum of engines.

“Okay,” Dean said, voice low, “I take back one thing.”

Arion glanced at him. “Only one?”

Dean ignored that. “You weren’t lying about the army,” he said. His eyes tracked the security positions. “This is… controlled.”

“It’s Alamina,” Arion replied simply. “We don’t let strangers get close enough to be a problem.”

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