August had once meant evacuation maps, military deployments, warning sirens in northern towns, and the inevitable question of where the forest would break first.
Now it meant birthdays.
Dean considered that an acceptable improvement.
The palace had been preparing for three days, although Arion had repeatedly insisted that a shared birthday dinner did not require international logistics, and Theo had pointed out that he was twenty-one, not five, which apparently changed absolutely nothing once Minerva became involved.
By noon, the western courtyard had been cleared for arriving vehicles, the private gardens had been opened for the family, and enough food had appeared in the kitchens to feed a minor diplomatic summit.
Dean stood beneath the shaded gallery overlooking the courtyard when the first Draxilian convoy passed through the gates.
"They're early."
