The convoy slowed as it approached the main steps. The palace loomed higher and higher until Dean's neck started to ache from looking up. The doors were immense, gilded in a way that felt… historic. Heavy. Like the building carried centuries the way some men carried scars.
Beyond the glass, Dean caught glimpses of terraces and balconies, of carved stone lions half-buried in snow, and of lamps mounted on ornate posts that looked like they belonged in a museum. The air outside was clean and cold, and everything about the place screamed "imperial," even as Arion kept insisting Alamina didn't do theatrics.
Dean eyed the building again, then looked at Arion. "You realize," he said dryly, "that this palace promises drama."
Arion didn't even blink. "It promises history," he corrected.
"That's the same thing," Dean shot back.
Arion's gaze slid to him, amused now. "Fine, a little bit of drama."
