The day wore on in a blur of glowing holo-screens, deadlines blinking red, and Edward's infuriatingly polite reminders. By the time Arik escaped his office, he felt wrung out, still Crown Prince, still upright, but with the kind of exhaustion that came from drowning in minutiae rather than battle.
He found Damian in one of the palace's private lounges, jacket discarded over the arm of a chair, golden eyes scanning a set of reports of his own. The Emperor glanced up as his son entered, one brow lifting at the sight of Arik's expression.
"Survived?" Damian asked dryly.
Arik collapsed into the opposite chair, latte in hand, warm black hair still damp from a second shower meant to shake off the headache. "Barely. I'm starting to think assassins are kinder than ledgers."
Damian chuckled low, setting his tablet aside. "Gabriel warned you."
