"I need your help."
Dean's brain short-circuited for a full minute. He tried to think about maybe duties as the fiancé of the Crown Prince, but nothing clicked.
Arion's mouth moved faintly, which in another context might have been amusement, and here it was simply the expression of a man watching Dean reach entirely the wrong conclusion at impressive speed.
"I beg your finest pardon?!" Dean yelled. "Why? And why does it sound bad for my mental health?"
"Because," Arion said, "you hear the phrase 'I need your help' and assume I'm about to make you attend something ceremonial."
Dean stared at him. "That is because you are a crown prince and this palace is eighty percent ceremonial ambuscade by volume."
"That estimate is too high."
"It is conservative."
Arion ignored this. "No ceremony. No public appearance. No diplomatic spouse duties. No luncheon. No dinner. No smiling at idiots."
That stopped Dean.
Not fully.
Enough to redirect him.
