The Emperor did not blink.
Outside, smoke curled from Gabriel's lips, silver threading through the dark like spun steel. He stood at ease, shoulders relaxed despite the earlier confrontation, wind tugging at his coat. Max lingered beside him, the picture of indolent elegance, though those who knew him well could see the guard beneath it.
Elliot Claymore had already stormed off, pride bruised, movements stiff with the kind of anger that couldn't admit defeat. His exit had been theatrical. Predictable. And irrelevant.
Above, Damian said nothing.
He stood at the edge of the archway, posture unmoving, hands clasped behind his back like a blade sheathed in human form. His eyes, golden and clear, tracked Gabriel's silhouette with the stillness of a man watching something far more dangerous than political fallout.
Beside him, General Halbrecht exhaled through his nose.
