Dean took a careful breath, steadying himself, and then shifted just enough to meet Arion's eyes.
"Alright, mountain," he murmured, half-amused, half-serious. "You've proved your point. You can guard me from shadows, ghosts, and overly polite butlers. Now you're going to walk inside like a civilized crown prince and let the physician do his job."
Arion's arms remained firm around him, instinct still thrumming under his skin, but the sharp edge had dulled. He studied Dean's face as if searching for any hint that this was a trick, any sign that letting go would mean losing him.
"I'm not leaving," Dean added softly, anticipating the thought. "I'll be right there. You just… need to stop trying to hold the entire world together with your arms."
A beat.
Reluctantly, Arion loosened his grip enough for Dean to slide back onto his feet. One hand stayed at Dean's wrist as if the contact itself was keeping him together.
Windstone inclined his head, relief flickering through his composed expression. "If His Highness would allow, the physician is prepared to examine him in the west sitting room. It's quiet, warm, and already secured."
Dean squeezed Arion's hand. "See? Warm, quiet, no one trying to steal me. Sounds ideal."
Arion's jaw worked, and then he gave a short nod. "You stay."
"I'm not going anywhere," Dean repeated. "But you are going to let someone make sure you don't collapse again. That's non-negotiable."
After a moment, Arion finally turned, allowing Windstone and the approaching medical staff to guide him toward the entrance. He moved slowly, as if every step was measured against the need to keep Dean within reach.
Dean walked alongside him, close enough that his shoulder brushed Arion's arm.
"Good," he said under his breath. "Now let's get you inside, have the doctor talk, and then, maybe, we can argue about your terrifying alpha instincts somewhere with better lighting and a couch."
For the first time since the backlash began, Arion's lips curved faintly.
A small, tired smile.
"Later," he agreed.
—
The west sitting room had been prepared in almost no time. Curtains were drawn, lights lowered, and the noise of the household kept at a respectful distance. The physician, an older alpha with a calm, unflappable air, knelt in front of Arion, checking his pulse, his pupils, and the lingering tremor in his hands.
Dean stood close, arms folded, watching every movement.
"Your Highness doesn't seem to be injured," the physician said at last, confirming what Arion had already told them. "Given the symptoms and secondary gender, this is a spike in pheromone reactance, or a backlash on short. Your Highness forced your dominant output for decades. The nervous system doesn't appreciate that."
Arion exhaled slowly, jaw tight. "I know."
The physician nodded. "The pain, the loss of consciousness, and the burning sensation will continue if you force it further. There is no medicine that will counteract it directly. Sedatives would only dull your awareness, not treat the underlying cause."
Dean's brows drew together. "So what does help?"
The physician glanced at him, then back at Arion, measuring his words. "A compatible dominant omega and their pheromones. The best option that would resolve all of it in a matter of weeks? A stable bond."
The words 'stable bond' echoed far louder in Dean's head than they should have.
Of course he had known. Intellectually. Politically. In the abstract way, one understood why treaties were signed and heirs were married and empires obsessed over bloodlines and secondary genders. He had known why Arion had pushed for the engagement with such relentless determination, why Emperor Otto had spoken of marriage with the certitude of a man arranging medical treatment rather than romance.
He had known all of it. But knowing and seeing the cost were not the same thing.
Now the reality of it sat in front of him in the shape of a man who had collapsed in his arms, whose body had burned itself from the inside out just to maintain control. A Crown Prince who could level cities with his presence and yet had been reduced to instinct, to pain, to the simple biological need for balance.
A dangerous creature that could and would lose control at some point, and based on the severity of his previous pain, Dean could only guess when.
Dean's fingers curled slowly into his sleeves as he absorbed it. This wasn't just about heirs and alliances and imperial continuity. This was about survival. About a system that would, sooner or later, demand its due.
And if Arion could reach this point at barely twenty-five… So could Sebastian.
The thought struck with a cold, quiet weight.
He hid it well. Years of court training and personal stubbornness made sure his face didn't betray the sharp spike of fear that went through him. He kept his posture relaxed, his expression controlled, and his tone level.
But inside, something had shifted.
This wasn't theoretical anymore. This was not about strategy, pressure, or an emperor playing chess with futures.
This was a body hitting its limit.
This was what happened when power was forced to exist without its counterpart.
Dean looked at Arion then, not as a crown prince, not as a terrifying alpha, not even as the man who had cornered and threatened him, but as someone who had just been proven frighteningly, dangerously mortal.
And for the first time, the engagement stopped feeling like politics and started feeling like a line drawn against a very real abyss.