Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Minerva’s smile widened just enough to prove she had been aiming for that exact reaction.

"Oh, Dean dear, you can’t blame me for asking. You and Arion have done your duties and not even once visited me or Otto in the last three months."

Dean sighed. "Minerva... you have eight other kids. Five are yours."

Minerva’s expression did not change.

That was how Dean knew he had made a mistake.

A lesser woman would have blinked. A weaker woman might have been offended. Empress Minerva of Alamina merely turned her head by a fraction and looked at him with the kind of polished maternal severity that made generals remember forgotten appointments and grown princes reconsider their tone.

"Yes," she said. "And yet somehow the dramatic one is the one avoiding me."

Dean stared at her. "You have narrowed that category too much."

Minerva’s lips twitched.

Dean regretted speaking.

Not because it was untrue. It was extremely true. He had met enough of Arion’s siblings to know drama was not a personal flaw in this family but an inherited administrative principle. It appeared in different forms, certainly. Some wielded silence. Some weaponized charm. Some turned emotional avoidance into a diplomatic doctrine. But none of them were simple.

Arion, unfortunately, was the shiniest disaster among them, and Dean had attached himself to him with legal, emotional, and now ring-based consequences.

Minerva lifted her glass. "The others visit."

Dean glanced across the hall with the weary caution of a man checking whether the accusation had witnesses.

It did.

Of course it did.

The imperial family had gathered in separate pockets throughout the ballroom because apparently one table was not enough to contain that much inherited nonsense.

Ariana stood near the west alcove, beautiful and composed at thirty-six, speaking with a pair of provincial governors as if she were politely deciding which one of them deserved mercy. Tyana, four years younger and brighter in expression, had one hand around a glass of wine and the other raised in warning at Caroline, who looked entirely too innocent for a woman of thirty-one and therefore suspicious by default.

Gregoria, twenty, leaned against a marble column with the bored elegance of someone who had already judged the entire party and found it poorly lit. Castor, nineteen, stood beside her, pretending not to be amused by whatever she was muttering under her breath.

And then there were the three sixteen-year-old catastrophes.

Levi, Lennox, and Lucia had claimed the edge of the dessert table with the confidence of children who knew they were technically old enough to attend the gala and technically young enough to evade full responsibility for what happened there. Levi had already set up three small pastries in a way that looked a lot like a military strategy. Lennox was listening to an old baron with the look of a boy who was remembering every word so he could use it against him later. Lucia was smiling sweetly at a lady-in-waiting while somehow convincing Oscar, who was eight, to stand in front of the chocolate fountain like a guard.

Diego, seven, had disappeared.

That was never good.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Where is Diego?"

Minerva took a sip of wine. "With Otto."

Dean found the Emperor a moment later.

Otto stood in the center of a solemn political conversation with the ambassador from Draxil, the Minister of Treasury, and two military aides. His expression was calm.

Diego was attached to his sleeve.

The child was not merely standing beside him. He had both hands locked around Otto’s formal cuff and was slowly, silently, and with tremendous dedication trying to twist one of the imperial buttons loose.

Otto did not react.

The Minister of Treasury did, but only by developing a mild sweat.

Dean stared. "His Majesty is letting him do that."

"Otto lost control of that button fifteen minutes ago," Minerva said. "He has chosen dignity over resistance."

"That child is dismantling the Emperor in public."

"He is seven. We encourage engineering curiosity."

"That is not engineering. That is sabotage."

"In this family, the difference depends on whether the results are useful."

Dean looked at her.

Minerva smiled.

He should have known better than to argue.

Still, his gaze moved back across the room, taking in the full, absurd spread of imperial offspring. Eight children alive and glittering beneath chandeliers, some born of Rosa, some born of Minerva, all carrying some version of Otto’s face or composure or impossible talent for making emotional neglect sound like statecraft.

Rosa’s kids were older and had a different mother, a different household rhythm, and a history that Dean had only learned bits and pieces of. Ariana looked like someone who had been taught early that elegance could be armor. Tyana laughed more easily, but her eyes missed nothing. Caroline used sweetness like a weapon she had sharpened in private. Arion, of course, stood apart even among them, golden-eyed and dangerous and currently shining with so much happiness that he looked like he had betrayed several family traditions at once.

Minerva’s children were younger, but not less imperial. Gregoria and Castor had inherited their mother’s terrifying stillness in different forms. Levi, Lennox, and Lucia had the synchronized menace of a matched set. Oscar had crumbs on his sleeve and the solemn eyes of a child who had already accepted that politics was boring unless one brought snacks. Diego was still trying to free the imperial button from its lifelong service.

Dean exhaled slowly. "You are standing here complaining about Arion when three of your children are under eighteen and currently at school most of the year."

"They visit during breaks."

"And the rest are scattered across different regions of the Empire with actual administrative responsibilities."

"They message."

"Do they?"

"Yes," Minerva said. "Ariana sends reports that pretend to be letters. Tyana sends gossip that pretends to be reports. Caroline sends both and labels neither. Gregoria sends one-word replies designed to test my patience. Castor writes properly when reminded. Levi sends pictures of things he has broken and claims they were broken before. Lennox sends suspiciously polite messages whenever he wants something. Lucia sends charming lies. Oscar sends drawings. Diego sends voice recordings that are mostly breathing and accusations."

Dean stared at her.

Minerva’s eyes gleamed. "And yet all of that is still communication."

Dean had no defense against that.

"You realize," Dean said, "Arion is the Crown Prince."

"Yes. I attended the ceremony."

"He has duties."

"So do I."

"He has council meetings."

"So do I."

"He has security briefings."

"So do I."

"He has assassination attempts."

Minerva looked amused. "Dean dear, those are not appointments. They are weather."

Dean closed his eyes.

There it was again.

The family motto, apparently.

"Fine, I will ask Arion to visit the main palace more often," Dean said, cracking under pressure.

Minerva’s smile appeared slowly.

"Oh," she said. "I wasn’t asking you to ask him."

Dean went still.

"That," he said carefully, "sounds like a trap."

"It is not a trap."

"Minerva."

"It is an educational opportunity."

"That is worse."

Her eyes gleamed over the rim of her glass. "I was asking you to bring him."