Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion returned to the Crown Prince’s administrative wing on Monday morning with all the enthusiasm of a man being escorted toward compulsory labor.

He had worked during the months surrounding Theodore’s birth, technically, because documents still required signatures and certain decisions could not be abandoned simply because Arion had discovered that watching his son sleep was considerably more interesting than infrastructure reports, but most of it had been done from the residence, usually with Theodore somewhere nearby and Dean telling him to stop pretending a tablet balanced beside a bottle counted as an office.

Otto had eventually decided enough was enough.

”You are the crown prince.”

Arion had been standing beside the nursery window at the time, fastening the cuffs of a dark green shirt while Theodore slept against Dean’s chest in the armchair behind him.

”There are nine other children in this family.”

Dean had immediately looked up.

Otto, who had called specifically because Arion had ignored two scheduling requests, remained unimpressed on the screen.

”And?”

”Select another one.”

Dean had covered his mouth.

Otto stared at his son.

”You are suggesting that I change the succession because you do not want to leave the house.”

”I have several siblings who are competent.”

”You are also competent.”

”That sounds like their opportunity.”

”Arion.”

”Castor is nineteen.”

”Twenty-four.”

”Even better.”

Dean had started laughing hard enough to disturb Theodore.

Otto’s expression never changed.

”Your meeting begins at nine.”

Then he ended the call.

Arion had considered not going.

Dean, traitor that he was, kissed him at the door and told him to behave.

So at nine precisely, Arion walked back into the offices he had spent most of his adult life occupying, dressed in charcoal trousers, a fitted dark green jacket, and the expression of someone already calculating how quickly he could return home without causing a constitutional problem.

The administrative wing had changed very little during his partial absence.

Tall windows overlooked the winter gardens, the bare trees beyond them silver beneath the pale November sky, while staff moved between offices carrying tablets, briefing folders, and enough coffee to sustain a small military unit.

His desk had been cleaned.

That made him suspicious.

Arion entered his office and immediately found a yellow duck sitting on the center of his blotter.

It wore a tiny paper crown.

He stared at it.

Zyon, standing near the secondary desk with the morning schedule open on his tablet, wisely said nothing.

Arion picked up the duck.

”Who entered my office?”

”Several people.”

”Who placed this here?”

”I have no information regarding that matter.”

Arion looked at him.

Zyon maintained the expression of a secretary who had survived years of royal nonsense by developing excellent professional discipline.

Arion placed the duck beside the lamp.

”Find out.”

”No.”

Arion raised an eyebrow.

”With respect, Your Highness, I have actual work.”

That was apparently what happened when everyone became comfortable.

Arion sat down.

There were forty-three pending items.

He immediately hated all of them.

By ten, he had approved two departmental reallocations, rejected a ceremonial travel proposal, reviewed an agricultural subsidy adjustment, and discovered that Otto had scheduled him for three separate meetings later in the week without consultation.

By eleven, Arion was considering abdication from a title he did not yet technically possess.

Then Nero walked in.

No announcement.

No hesitation.

Just Nero in black trousers, a loose deep-purple shirt, and a long dark coat he had apparently refused to surrender despite being indoors.

Arion looked up.

”Why are you here?”

Nero dropped into the chair opposite him.

”To visit.”

”You have your own country.”

”So do you, apparently.”

Arion narrowed his eyes.

Nero smiled.

”You look miserable.”

”I am working.”

”Yes. I can tell.”

”You are also a crown prince.”

”I am currently on family leave.”

”You do not have a child.”

”I have a godson.”

”That is not how leave works.”

Nero crossed one leg over the other and looked toward the stack of reports on Arion’s desk with visible satisfaction.

For several minutes, he simply watched Arion sign documents.

It became irritating very quickly.

”Do you have nothing to do?”

Nero’s smile disappeared slightly.

”That is an offensive question.”

”Answer it.”

Nero removed his communicator from his pocket.

Three unread messages appeared on the screen.

All from Dax.

Arion looked at him.

Nero looked back.

Then another message arrived.

Nero did not open it.

Arion’s mouth curved.

”Oh.”

”Do not.”

”Your father is giving you work.”

”He is delegating.”

”Because you are capable.”

Nero looked personally insulted by the phrasing.

”That was exactly what he said.”

Arion laughed.

Nero pointed at him.

”This is not funny.”

”It is extremely funny.”

”My father has discovered that if he phrases administrative abuse as confidence in my abilities, nobody sympathizes with me.”

Arion leaned back in his chair.

”My father reminded me I was crown prince and refused to let me transfer the title to one of my siblings.”

Nero considered that.

Then slowly smiled.

”We have the same problem.”

Arion glanced toward the communicator still vibrating in Nero’s hand.

Apparently, they did.

Within twenty minutes, Nero had moved to the secondary table near the windows, opened his own secured tablet, and begun answering Sahan state correspondence with the deeply offended efficiency of a man proving exactly why his father kept giving him more work.

Arion found the situation unexpectedly pleasant.

Not because either of them wanted to be there.

Because misery improved considerably when shared.

Nero approved something with a sharp movement of his finger.

”Dax wants me to review a security restructuring.”

”Otto wants me to chair an infrastructure committee on Thursday.”

”We should leave.”

”Where?”

Nero considered the question.

”Somewhere without communications coverage.”

Arion looked toward him.

”The infected forest.”

Nero’s eyes brightened.

”That would work.”

”No.”

”You suggested it.”

”As a joke.”

”That was your first mistake.”

Arion returned to his report.

The door opened shortly before lunch, and Zyon entered with fresh coffee and a folder requiring physical signatures.

He stopped when he saw Nero working at the other table.

”Should I arrange another office?”

”No,” Arion said immediately.

Nero looked up.

”I am comfortable here.”

”That is precisely the problem.”

Zyon placed the coffee down and left without becoming involved.

Nero reached for one cup.

Arion moved it away.

”You have your own.”

”I am a guest.”

”You have been here for six hours.”

”That makes me an established resident.”

Arion was preparing an answer when his secure communicator activated.

Hendrik.

The name immediately changed the atmosphere.

Arion accepted.

”Hendrik?”

The commander appeared on the screen wearing a field jacket, the background behind him showing one of the northern monitoring stations.

”We have an inspection scheduled for the infected territory.”

Arion straightened.

Nero stopped typing.

”When?”

”Tomorrow morning, if Victor clears the conditions. The transformed populations remain stable, but the eastern monitoring teams recorded movement deeper inside the restricted forest, beyond the sections we have properly surveyed.”

Arion’s attention shifted entirely away from administrative reports.

”How deep?”

”Past the old central service route.”

That was farther than their previous controlled entries.

Hendrik continued.

”No aggression, no seasonal migration, and no indication the August pattern has returned, but we need to inspect the equipment and determine what is moving through that section.”

Arion looked toward Nero.

Nero was already smiling.

”No,” Arion said.

”I didn’t say anything.”

”You are not coming.”

”That seems premature.”

Hendrik sighed through the screen.

Arion looked toward the stack of documents on his desk, then toward the communicator, and finally at Nero, who had apparently forgotten every complaint about work the moment an infected forest became available.

Returning physically to his duties had lasted less than one day before something strange found him again.

Dean was going to be delighted.