Dean snatched it with more force than necessary, fingers tight on the edges. The screen was already open to an email thread. The name at the top made something in Dean's stomach drop.
Thomas Lancaster.
Dean blinked hard.
He hadn't thought about Thomas in years - not because Thomas had done anything wrong, but because Thomas had existed in that category of 'political people who orbit your life and then vanish.' Dean had been fifteen. Thomas had been seventeen, tall, clean-cut, and too polite to be interesting. He'd visited Palatine for something official Dean couldn't even remember now, because Dean at fifteen had made a sport of not caring about adults' agendas.
They'd barely intersected. A handshake. A few sentences. A nod across a room full of too much perfume and fake smiles.
Dean's eyes dropped to the email. The message was addressed to Arion.
Dean's throat went tight as he read.
