The transition from the warmth of his bed to the sterile, high-backed chair in the Crown Prince's office was one Arion made with a very specific, military-grade reluctance.
It had been three days.
The disaster Dean had predicted had arrived, though not in the form of raised voices or broken furniture. It had arrived as four men were seated around a polished mahogany table while the morning sun cut across the Alaminian crest on the far wall and turned the whole room into an exercise in controlled displeasure.
Arion felt settled.
It was a dangerous condition for a man in his position.
