Chapter 517: The Prince

Their son was born twenty-three minutes after Arion entered the operating room.

He was too small.

That was the first thing Arion noticed.

Not dangerously small, according to the neonatal team, but nothing like the heavy newborn he had imagined every time Dean complained about the child attempting to break his ribs from the inside.

The baby emerged pale, furious for approximately three seconds, and then profoundly unimpressed by existence.

A thin cry cut through the surgical suite before the neonatal physicians took him immediately to the heated assessment station beside the operating theater.

Arion did not move.

Dean’s fingers tightened around his.

"Is he alright?"

Arion looked toward the physicians.

Monitors activated around the tiny body. One nurse fitted respiratory support over his face while another checked his temperature and circulation.

Then the neonatologist turned toward them.

"He’s stable."

Dean exhaled.

Arion realized only then that he had stopped breathing.

"He needs assistance because he’s early," the physician continued, keeping his voice calm while the team worked. "That was expected at thirty-three weeks. His heart rate is good, oxygenation is responding appropriately, and there are no immediate complications."

Dean stared toward the station even though the equipment and medical staff obscured most of the baby from view.

"Can I see him?"

"As soon as we finish stabilizing him."

Arion lowered his forehead briefly against Dean’s temple.

Their son.

Alive. Small, premature, surrounded by machines, but alive.

Dean’s eyes closed for several seconds.

Then he whispered, "Happy birthday."

Arion looked at him.

Dean smiled weakly.

"You said you wanted something normal."

Arion almost laughed.

Instead, he kissed Dean’s forehead and kept his mouth there until the tightness in his chest became manageable.

Their son apparently had no interest in normal timing.

—

The neonatal intensive care suite had been prepared before the cesarean ended.

The baby was transferred there in a heated transport incubator while Dean remained in recovery, and Arion followed only long enough to confirm that every physician in the room appeared considerably calmer than he felt.

The NICU occupied a secured section of the royal medical wing, designed for complicated neonatal cases and fitted with equipment advanced enough that Victor had once described it as offensively expensive.

Arion had never been more grateful for imperial overspending.

Their son slept beneath the transparent cover of the incubator.

He had not opened his eyes.

A tiny monitoring sensor wrapped around one foot. Fine dark hair covered his head, flattened slightly from birth, and his chest rose beneath the small respiratory interface with a rhythm Arion watched far too carefully.

"He hasn’t opened his eyes yet," Arion said.

The neonatologist stood beside him.

"That is not concerning."

Arion looked toward the physician.

"At his gestational age, prolonged sleep and limited wake periods are normal. He has been through delivery, stabilization, and transfer. Right now, sleeping is useful."

"And his eyes?"

"He may open them intermittently earlier, but we would expect more consistent wakefulness and visual response over the next couple of weeks."

Arion looked back through the incubator.

Two weeks.

The physician continued.

"His pheromone glands are still immature. We are not expecting a measurable profile yet."

That Arion had known.

Knowing it did not stop the silence around his son from feeling strange.

Every member of their family had a scent.

Dean’s mint lemonade.

Arion’s vetiver.

Otto, Minerva, Rina, Lucas, and Trevor.

Their child smelled only like warm fabric, sterile air, and something faintly newborn that had nothing to do with secondary-gender biology.

"For most premature infants born at this stage," the physician explained, "pheromonal expression appears as maturation progresses. If development continues normally, we should begin detecting an initial profile in roughly two weeks."

Arion nodded.

"And secondary gender?"

"Technically alpha, but it’s far too early to tell the exact type of it."

That did not matter.

Nothing about that mattered.

Arion rested two fingers against the access opening of the incubator and touched the back of his son’s tiny hand.

The fingers moved reflexively.

Then curled around one of his.

Arion went completely still.

The baby did not wake.

He simply held on.

—

Dean was awake when Arion returned.

The recovery room was dimmer than the surgical suite, the curtains partly drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. Dean lay slightly elevated in the medical bed, pale and exhausted, his blond hair loose around his face after someone removed the surgical cap.

He looked immediately toward Arion.

"Well?"

Arion crossed the room.

"He’s stable."

Dean’s shoulders dropped.

"Sleeping?"

"Yes."

"Still hasn’t opened his eyes?"

"No. They said that’s normal."

Arion sat beside the bed and took Dean’s hand.

"They expect more wakefulness over the next two weeks. His pheromone glands are immature too, so there’s no profile yet."

Dean smiled faintly.

"So we have two weeks before everyone starts arguing about who he smells like."

Arion’s mouth curved.

"At least."

Dean squeezed his fingers.

"Good. I need the rest."

Arion leaned down and kissed him.

Dean looked exhausted enough that even speaking seemed to cost him something, but his expression remained peaceful.

"He held my finger," Arion said.

Dean stared at him.

"What?"

"He didn’t wake up. He just grabbed it."

Something in Dean’s face crumpled for half a second before he recovered.

"You should have recorded it."

"I was occupied."

"With having emotions?"

"Yes."

Dean smiled.

"That must have been difficult."

Arion kissed his forehead.

—

The family had been informed before Dean left recovery.

Lucas, Trevor, and Sebastian had already been in Roslew for Arion’s birthday gala and were on their way to the medical wing within minutes of receiving the message.

Rina had apparently cried first and then threatened three separate drivers when the palace security route delayed her departure.

Minerva had remained with Otto long enough to confirm that Dean and the baby were stable before both began rearranging the evening.

The gala would continue.

Neither Arion nor Dean would attend.

That decision required no discussion.

Hundreds of guests were already assembled in Roslew, foreign representatives had traveled for the occasion, and canceling the event after the birth of a healthy royal child would create unnecessary concern.

Instead, the palace communications office issued a statement shortly before the scheduled opening.

The Crown Prince and his consort had welcomed a son.

The new prince had arrived prematurely but was stable and receiving specialist neonatal care.

Dean was recovering well.

The announcement transformed Arion’s birthday gala into something entirely different.

By the time Otto entered the ballroom, the news had already spread through every table, balcony, and reception hall.

The celebration continued without the guest of honor.

Nobody appeared particularly offended.

Arion sat beside Dean’s medical bed instead.

His jacket from the morning meeting was still somewhere in Otto’s administrative wing. His birthday gala clothing remained untouched in their residence.

Dean looked toward him from the pillows.

"You realize everyone is celebrating your birthday without you."

"They’ll survive."

"And the birth of your son."

"That is more important."

Dean smiled.

"Our son."

Arion looked toward the secured tablet displaying the live NICU feed beside the bed.

The baby had barely moved.

Still sleeping.

Still holding one tiny fist near his face.

"Yes," Arion said quietly.

"Our son."