Dean had wanted dinner.
Family, cake, no speeches, and enough food he could actually tolerate without spending half the evening fighting nausea.
What he got was technically still a birthday party.
The distinction became questionable somewhere around the fourth security checkpoint.
By early evening, the main palace's western reception wing had filled with family, senior household staff, several council representatives, and enough discreetly positioned press to make Dean reconsider every decision that had led him here. Minerva had kept her promise not to turn the occasion into an accession ceremony, but apparently that still allowed pale-gold banners, winter greenery, hundreds of candles, a string ensemble near the garden doors, and an entire wall of flowers arranged around the family crest.
At least none of them smelled strongly.
Dean had specifically threatened the florists.
