Dinner should have been comfortable. It was supposed to be a simple diplomatic meal, familiar faces at a familiar table, nothing more than polite conversation and safe political lines. Instead, Dean sat there with a tight unease curling low in his stomach and the realization that every decision he had made in the previous twenty-four hours had been wrong. Even breathing felt like a risk.
The Alaminian envoy filled the opposite side of the dining table: council members in tailored modern uniforms, military representatives with perfectly pressed jackets, and diplomatic advisors who managed to look like they were already making assessments of Dean's suitability as if this were a formal evaluation. Their silence felt intentional, heavy, and disciplined.
And then there was Arion.
