Arion woke slowly, without an alarm, a knock at the door, or one of his aides appearing with an emergency serious enough to justify entering the imperial bedroom before sunrise.
For several seconds, he did not open his eyes.
The room was warm beneath the heavy winter blankets, the curtains still mostly closed against the pale morning beyond the windows, and the quiet around him had the particular softness of a palace that had not yet fully begun moving for the day.
Something small was pressed against his side.
Arion opened his eyes.
Theo was asleep with his back against Arion's ribs, one knee thrown over the blanket and his dark hair sticking up in several directions, while the wooden dragon he insisted on keeping near him had somehow ended up wedged between Arion's hip and the mattress.
Arion stared at his son.
He had absolutely no memory of Theo entering the room.
His gaze moved farther across the bed.
