Arion had been standing by the office window for almost twenty minutes when Dean found him.
The private study was quiet at that hour, the morning staff had already been dismissed, and the doors were closed against the rest of the residence. Pale winter light spilled across the dark wood floor, catching on the edge of Arion's desk and the low table near the fireplace where someone had left coffee and a plate of pastries before realizing he had no intention of eating breakfast.
Outside, snow covered the inner gardens in a thin white layer.
Arion barely saw it.
His hands rested against the stone frame of the window, shoulders rigid beneath a fitted black shirt. He had abandoned his jacket over the back of a chair and rolled his sleeves once, but otherwise he looked exactly as he did during difficult council meetings.
Dean knew better.
He entered without knocking and closed the door behind him.
Arion did not turn.
Dean crossed half the room before speaking.
