By the time they reached the corridor that fed into the main hall, Dean had the distinct sensation that the palace was holding its breath.
Protocol ate sound so hard that Dean could hear each of their individual steps. Guards moved with that smooth, rehearsed silence that made everything feel sharper than it needed to be. The air itself felt freshly filtered, scrubbed of anything too human, too messy, or too honest.
Which was almost funny, because Dean was walking into it with his pheromones still faintly tangled with a crown prince's.
He could smell it on himself if he focused.
Sylvia trudged at his other side like a woman being dragged toward a public execution. For once, the menace was muted. She looked tired, sore, and deeply offended that her life had spiraled from 'civilian with opinions' to 'civilian present for royal greetings.'
She had both hands on Boreas's leash like she was holding a wild animal in place through sheer spite.
