Dean's brain stopped, restarted, and stopped again.
This was a trap, and he fell into it like the fool he was.
Because his mind, traitorous as it was, presented him with a dozen options, none of which were usable.
He could scream 'help,' and it would sound like a joke in a palace where half the staff had watched him walk in here willingly and the other half would assume he was rehearsing something dramatic for diplomatic purposes. He could scream 'guards,' and the guards would arrive, see Arion's hand on Dean's wrist, and promptly decide that today was a wonderful day to suddenly forget how legs worked.
He couldn't scream for his parents.
