The tea was good.

The mini sandwiches were delicate without being insulting, the pastries were warm, and the mint tea had not poisoned Arion, which Dean considered thoughtful.

For almost fifteen minutes, nothing terrible happened.

That should have warned him.

Ilara placed her teacup down carefully.

Dean noticed it at once.

So did Arion.

The light through the windows remained the same. The ugly painting of the first temple council remained as tragic as ever. Hunter stood near the door with professional stillness, and the attendants had withdrawn far enough to give the conversation privacy without pretending they were not available.

Nothing had changed.

And yet everything had.

Ilara folded her hands in her lap. Her face, which had carried dry humor so naturally that Dean had almost begun to trust it, settled into something older. Quieter. Not solemn in the theatrical way priests liked to become solemn when they wanted people afraid.

Clear.

That was the word.

Her eyes were terribly clear.

Dean’s fingers tightened around his cup.

"Your Grace," Ilara said, looking at him. "Your father is a siren-type dominant omega."

Dean stared at her.

Then sighed. "Yes. He is."

Arion’s hand, resting beside his, did not move. But Dean felt the shift in him anyway, the silent attention, the readiness beneath stillness.

Ilara continued, "Grand Duke Lucas did not merely survive a second chance. He lived through three separate lives, or timelines, depending on which expert one wishes to annoy."

Dean’s expression cooled.

"As Arion knew about it back in Palatine," he said, "I assume you and the temple know about it too."

"We do."

Dean set his cup down.

The sound was small.

Sharp.

"Then I also assume you know that speaking about my father’s lives is not something people do over tea."

Ilara accepted that without flinching. "I know."

"Good."

"We tend to shield those like Grand Duke Lucas," she said. "Not expose them. Men like Benedict always search for miracles to steal. If they hear of a soul that crossed death and returned with memory intact, they do not see a person. They see another chance at their own miserable lives."

Dean’s jaw tightened.

There it was.

Benedict again.

Not present, not living, not breathing in the room, and still somehow leaving fingerprints on everything sacred enough to be corrupted.

Dean’s voice dropped. "Why are you telling me this?"

Ilara’s gaze did not move away, and that made Dean uneasy.

For one unpleasant second, she reminded him of Lucas.

In that terrible way his father sometimes looked at the world when memory crossed over the present and made him see two endings at once.

Dean hated it.

"What do you really want?" he asked.

Ilara was silent for a moment.

Then she said, "To warn you."

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

"Well," she amended softly, "not you."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Your brother."

Dean went still.

Arion’s gaze sharpened.

Hunter, by the door, did not move, but the air around him changed.

Dean heard his own voice as if from a distance. "Sebastian?"

"Yes."

A strange pressure settled behind Dean’s ribs. He had been worried about Sebastian for years now; he, like Arion, was over twenty-five, and that meant that his days were numbered, as Berserk could come for him at any moment.

Dean knew and tried to speak with Sebastian about it before the wedding, but his brother dismissed his worries, as he was fine.

"Is he going berserk?" Dean asked, already panicking.

"No," Ilara said calmly. "He is not close to Berserk. Not for at least five years."

Dean’s breath left him too sharply.

Arion’s hand closed around his wrist before Dean could reach for his cup and knock it over.

"But," Ilara continued, and the single word settled over the table like a shadow, "he might awaken as a dominant omega. More precisely, a siren-type dominant omega."

Dean stared at her.

For one second, he genuinely thought he had misunderstood.

Then the words arranged themselves in his mind properly, and they became worse.

"No," he said.

Ilara did not move.

Dean leaned forward. "No. Sebastian is a dominant alpha."

"We are aware."

"He is not newly awakened. He is not confused by his first rut or waiting for his body to decide what it wants to become. He is the same age as Arion."

"I know."

"He has already presented almost ten years ago. So what you are saying is impossible."

Ilara lowered her gaze briefly to her cup.

Dean disliked that even more.

People only looked at tea like that when the answer was about to be unpleasant.

"In any ordinary case," she said, "yes."

Dean laughed once.

It was not amused.

"Wonderful. I adore when priests say ordinary things like the world is about to become extremely stupid."

Arion’s thumb brushed once against the inside of Dean’s wrist. A quiet warning. A quieter comfort.

Ilara accepted the insult without offense. "If Sebastian were only Sebastian, I would not be having this conversation with you."

Dean’s voice dropped. "Be careful."

"I am."

"No," Dean said, and something colder moved under his skin. "Be more careful."

For the first time, Ilara paused, not from fear, but from respect.

Dean saw the difference and hated that too, because he could not use arrogance against her if she refused to offer any.

Ilara inclined her head. "Your brother’s will remains his own. He is not going to get mad... at least for what we can see."

Dean did not relax.

Arion’s expression had become quiet in the way it became quiet before violence, before judgment, before royal blood remembered that crowns were not ornaments.

"Speak plainly," Arion said.

Ilara looked at him, then back at Dean.

"There are people whose secondary nature is a door," she said. "Most open once. Some are forced. Some are broken. Some are locked so deeply that no physician, no rut, no heat, no ritual, and no common bond can reach them."

Dean’s throat tightened.

"Sebastian is not an omega."

"No," Ilara said. "He is not."

"Then stop saying he might wake as one."

"He may not become one by himself."

The room went silent.

Dean understood before she said the name.

Perhaps that was why he became so still.

Nero.

White-blond hair. Purple eyes. Saha’s adored, terrifying prince. Dean’s childhood friend. The beautiful disaster who had spent years looking at Sebastian as if the entire world had committed a clerical error by not handing him over already.

Nero, who smiled like a spoiled prince and watched like a starving god for the last seven months.

Nero, who was not merely dominant.

Not sigma like Arion or Dax.

Enigma.

The only one.

Dean’s fingers curled slowly against the table.

Ilara said, very quietly, "An enigma does not only bond. He rewrites the nature of the bond before it forms."

Arion’s jaw tightened.

Dean could hear his own heartbeat.

"Nero," he said.

"Yes."

Dean stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor.

Hunter moved near the door, then stopped when Arion lifted one hand slightly.

Dean did not look away from Ilara.

"Nero would not force him."

The words came out too fast.

Too defensive.

Too much like something Dean needed to believe before he had examined whether belief had any right to exist.

Ilara’s face softened, and for the first time since the conversation began, Dean wanted to hate her.

"Perhaps not," she said.

Dean’s eyes flashed. "No. Not perhaps. Nero is many things. Unhinged. Possessive. Spoiled by an entire kingdom and at least three unreasonable adults. But he loves Sebastian."

"Yes," Ilara said. "For now. But what if he gets sick of waiting?"